


Consort

by Sed



Series: Across Enemy Lines [4]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Size Difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-02-09 17:24:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 76,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18642658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sed/pseuds/Sed
Summary: Amidst unsettling changes in Stormwind, Sylvanas reaches out with a proposal for the Alliance.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the new fic! I kind of jumped right in after finishing the last one.
> 
> Still haven't decided if this story will be very long or split into two parts. It really depends on how things go. I'll decide in a chapter or two, I think, and I'll let you guys know then.

Saurfang wandered the halls of the nearly empty keep, moving through the pools of light cast by the torches along the walls as he went. It was a time in the night both far too late and much too early, and not even the servants were up and about at such an hour. Saurfang had been torn from restful slumber by a kicking, muttering young king, who had been sleeping uneasily most nights since their return from Darkshore. At first he had been able to ignore it, but Anduin’s fits had grown so violent that Saurfang had been forced to retreat to his own chambers at times, where he could finally get the rest even he needed.

The nighttime disturbances had become so common in recent weeks that Saurfang had even learned to anticipate them, and now found himself awoken instantly by the faintest sounds from the other side of the bed. Anduin often muttered strange words, half-formed and of no tongue that Saurfang knew. He could speak and understand most of the languages found on Azeroth, but if they were words at all, the meaning of Anduin’s unconscious ramblings were a mystery to him. In fact he had assumed it was all simply gibberish at first, until he realized, only two days earlier, that several of the sounds had been repeating.

Unfortunately, asking Anduin about these restless nights had proved entirely fruitless; the boy wasn’t even aware he had been thrashing about in his sleep, much less holding conversations with himself. When confronted he’d simply frowned, or shrugged, and dismissed the matter as a symptom of increased stress as a result of the war. It didn’t seem to wear on him in his waking hours, either. If anything, he was as energetic as ever. He had, of course, apologized profusely for disturbing Saurfang’s sleep. In fact, several times he had gone out of his way to _personally_ show his remorse for the inconvenience he’d caused. That had made suffering through the difficult nights a great deal easier. For a few days.

Now, exhausted from hours spent beside Anduin’s flailing limbs, Saurfang was beginning to think that sharing their sleeping space—while intimate and enjoyable—was a mistake.

He turned back and took the closest stairs down to the lowest level of the keep, where the kitchen and armory were located. The only souls who might be awake at such a lonely hour were the cooks and bakers, who would often rise well before the rest of the castle to provide meals for the servants who looked after the royal household. If he was forced to endure a sleepless night, he reasoned, it might as well be on a full stomach.

To his great surprise, Saurfang had found that the reception he received in the common areas of the keep was a great deal warmer since word of their exploits in Darkshore had spread amongst the servants. The cooks and maids no longer seemed to mind his presence, and very few flinched or ducked out of the way now when he passed. It was at once a relief and a disappointment.

He had just reached the last set of steps when he caught the sound of shouting coming from the kitchen up ahead. It was a man’s voice, raised high above several others. Unfortunately, Saurfang was well acquainted with its owner.

He entered the kitchen and stood just inside the doorway with his arms crossed. “Did the cooks withhold your scraps again?” he asked Greymane, who was holding a pot aloft, apparently brandishing it at one of the scrubbers.

Greymane rounded on him, and that was when Saurfang realized why he was behaving so belligerently: he was drunk. His eyes were sunken and bloodshot, and his nose was a deep, ruddy scarlet, just a shade darker than his cheeks. He was snarling as though he had fangs to bear, and Saurfang thought it was only lucky for the servants in the kitchen that he hadn’t lost control already and transformed. It might have been a different scene entirely if he had.

“Put that down,” he said.

“Bite your tongue, savage!” Greymane snapped. He dropped the pot anyway, and then lazily tracked its course as it rolled across the floor. He seemed to have forgotten that he’d been holding it only a few seconds earlier.

“Lord Saurfang,” one of the maids exclaimed, bowing just a bit. It was strange how they addressed him with respect now. “He’s been like this for hours,” she said. “We don’t know what to do!”

“Have you considered tying him to a tree outside?” he asked. No one else laughed. He shook his head and unfolded his arms. “Leave him to me.”

“Leave who to you?” Greymane demanded. “I’ve left enough to you. I—what do you want?”

“I’m going to take you back to your chambers, old wolf,” Saurfang said.

“You’ll do nothing of the sort. You enormous, awful…” Greymane sighed and slumped against a bench. He put his head in his hands. “I hate you,” he muttered, but without any real malice.

“I know.”

“Have a drink with me.”

The kitchen staff looked imploringly to Saurfang, who only sighed. In Orgrimmar he would have simply beaten Greymane unconscious, taken what he wished of the alcohol he hadn’t yet consumed, and clasped him on the shoulder when he roused in the morning, hungover and sick. Things were much simpler in the Horde. Or they had been, anyway. “Go,” he said to the others. He cocked his head in the direction of the door, and the small huddle of humans gratefully made their exit.

“What are you drinking?” he asked of Greymane, who was holding a dark green bottle aloft and shaking it.

“I’ve no idea. Have some.”

Saurfang took the bottle and gave it a sniff. Whatever it was, he couldn’t identify it from scent alone. He briefly wondered if it had been poisoned, but then decided that even drunk, Greymane would not resort to such honorless methods simply to rid himself of a nuisance. They had been cautiously cordial since Darkshore, anyhow. And in his opinion Greymane possessed neither the cunning nor the patience to play a long con simply to lull him into complacency.

He took a drink of the strange liquid. It went down fighting, and burned his throat for good measure on the way. “This is disgusting,” he said. That was saying something, given the questionable spirits he’d partaken of in his day.

Greymane nodded, moving his head too much for such a simple gesture. Slowly, and more carefully than could be expected of most in his state, he slid off the bench and onto the stone floor. He rested his head where he had been sitting and closed his eyes.

“I gather there is some reason you’re down here, terrorizing the cooks and pissing away the castle’s supply of… whatever this is.”

“Mm,” Greymane hummed.

Saurfang waited. He didn’t much care what had driven the man down to the kitchen in the dark of night, so clearly distraught that he’d taken solace in the bottom of a bottle. Several, from the looks of it. When it seemed no answer was forthcoming, he decided to wait outside, and let Greymane sort it out on his own until he was ready to talk.

“It’s my boy,” he heard quietly behind him. “My son.”

When he turned back Saurfang found the old wolf’s eyes brimming with unshed tears. He had tucked his arms around himself, cradling the glass bottle against his chest.

Suddenly he felt very much out of his depth. He was not one to offer comfort—not in any way that Greymane would appreciate, at least. But he had given his word that he would deal with the matter, and so he had little choice but to endure. Silently he cursed himself for bothering. “Tell me,” he said. He sat on the bench by Greymane’s head, but a fair distance away, on the chance the old wolf did get the idea to transform and take his rage out on someone close.

Greymane wagged his head, and let it drop back to the wooden plank with a _thunk_. “There’s nothing to tell,” he slurred. The bottle slipped from his arms, and Saurfang reached for it before it could fall. “Nothing you don’t know already. It’s a matter of history now, and only one of several _thousand_ unpunished crimes.” He snarled at no one, and then blinked hard and looked away, focusing instead on a wall of iron pans. He was fighting his emotions, and doing a poor job of it. The alcohol certainly hadn’t done him any favors there, either, although it had at least left him somewhat mellow after his earlier outburst. But there was no true cure for what ailed the man; no easy way to soothe his torment. It was boundless rage and a sorrow so heavy he could not keep it from choking his every breath. A pain that could not simply be left to linger and fade as all others might, lest it consume every sliver of joy that followed.

It was a pain with which Saurfang himself had a great deal of experience. He had lost his own son to the Lich King, and a terrible and gruesome violation of his very soul. Only later, after his second and final death, had Saurfang finally been able to claim his body. It was a story told amongst members of both the Horde and the Alliance, often spoken of regretfully, but never with the respect and admiration his deeds had earned. The thought of it set Saurfang’s blood aflame, but at least he had been able to take some satisfaction in the Lich King’s destruction. His vengeance had been seen to, and the punishment carried out justly, whereas for all Greymane’s great pain, Sylvanas Windrunner still lived. What’s more, she _thrived_. Every day that she drew breath was a slap in Greymane’s face, and a cruel reminder of his loss.

But Greymane did not need commiseration just then, nor did he need to be reminded of someone else’s pain. It was his own that pulled him down into the bottle, and he would not climb back out again without a hand up. “To your son,” Saurfang said. “A hero.” He tipped back the vile bottle of fermented muck and took another deep pull.

Greymane made an attempt at a smile. He accepted the bottle when it was offered back to him. “To Liam,” he agreed. With far less cheer, he added, “To vengeance. Someday.”

They traded the bottle again, and Saurfang put a comforting hand on Greymane’s shoulder. To his surprise it wasn’t immediately shrugged away. He gave him a firm but friendly pat. “You will have it, old wolf,” he said. “I’m sure of that.”

 

* * *

 

 

Anduin woke to the pounding of countless hammers ringing through his head. For a few confusing seconds he thought he was back in Ironforge, until the sound came to him again, and he realized it wasn’t hammers at all, but someone knocking furiously on his door. He quickly wrapped himself in a robe and hurried through the front room to answer.

“What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong?” It was one of the kitchen maids. She was even covered in smears of flour, as if to emphasize her station.

Beside the door the SI:7 agent who had been taking the evening watch gave him a hapless shrug. So much for security.

“Your Majesty, I’m so sorry to disturb you,” she said. She didn’t sound all that sorry—in fact she sounded quite relieved to have finally woken him. Her voice was high and breathless, as though she had been shouting for some time. “You need to come down to the kitchen. Right away.”

Anduin blinked slowly. He was accustomed to the servants speaking to him as though he were still a boy, at times. After all, most of them had known him all of his life. But encountering such a situation in the middle of the night, in his bare feet and robe, had left him somewhat caught off guard. He looked to the SI:7 agent again. “I… will return shortly,” he said to the man. He turned back to the maid. “Let me get my boots.”

“There’s no time, King Anduin, the kitchen, it’s—please,” she pleaded.

Anduin tried not to let his irritation show. It was only the late hour, he told himself. He nodded and stepped out into the hall, indicating with a gesture that she should lead the way. He tried to recall his father ever dealing with anything so bizarre.

“Down here,” she said as they approached the stairs that led into the kitchen. “We’ve been trying to handle it ourselves, but it’s gotten too dangerous, you see.”

He entered the large kitchen and was immediately bombarded by the smell of spirits, hitting him like an eye-watering wave. He opened his eyes again to find that the room itself was in no better shape than it smelled. Flour, spices, and other unidentifiable ingredients had been spilled upon or thrown at nearly every surface—including the ceiling. Pots and pans, some too large for a mere human to lift alone, were scattered about. A few of those had been filled with other utensils and objects Anduin could no longer identify, for all that they had been jammed together in haphazard clusters. A large bench was overturned, and now lay at an angle against the wall. It also appeared as though someone had attempted to cook, and what remained of their efforts was now little more than a charred lump, smoldering over a cookfire.

And amidst all the chaos, covered from head to toe in signs of their handiwork, were Saurfang and Genn. They were singing. Worse still, they weren’t even singing the same song. “What in the name of the Light are you two doing?!” he demanded, shouting over their discordant and frankly _awful_ wailing. He hadn’t been subjected to anything so terrible since his time aboard the _Vanguard_.

Genn looked up at once, his eyes wide. He immediately pointed to Saurfang. In turn, Saurfang made a great show of looking down at Genn’s hand and following it back to himself. “You lie!” he roared.

“I was drinking quietly,” Genn said, picking his way over the words as though they might jump up and bite him. “ _You_ did this.” He said it as he un-subtly brushed flour from his clothing.

Saurfang, on the other hand, seemed to have lost the will to argue somewhere between Genn’s accusation and the ensuing response. He didn’t seem to remember that they had been arguing at all, in fact. He looked up at Anduin and grinned toothily. “Come here,” he said, arms wide in invitation.

“I don’t think so.”

Genn made a sour face. “This is a kitchen,” he said. Neither he nor Saurfang were nearly as articulate as he was sure they thought they were, but Anduin could understand them well enough regardless. Much to his regret. “Don’t you vile green animals have any manners at all?”

“You are a _dog,_ ” Saurfang returned pointedly.

“It’s not—I’m not a dog,” Genn said.

“Like a dog.”

“It’s not.”

Anduin pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Enough!” he shouted, silencing them both. “You,” he said, pointing to Genn, “go with them.” He gestured to the rest of the kitchen staff, who had gathered in the doorway behind him. “Do not give them any trouble, or I’ll let you dry out in the Stockade for the rest of the day. And you.” He turned to Saurfang. “You’re coming with me, and if you give _me_ any trouble, I will put you in the same cell as him.”

Genn’s eyes were unfocused, and he frowned deeply as he asked, “But why am _I_ the punishment for him?”

“You’re both a punishment right now, Genn.”

They both continued to complain bitterly, but obeyed. Genn was swiftly ferried away by the cooks and maids. Anduin took Saurfang’s arm over his shoulder and guided him up the steps and out of the kitchen, where he slowly led him in the direction of the stairs to the center keep. “What possessed you to do something so foolish?” he demanded, feeling as though he was scolding a child—albeit one easily three times his size. “They’ll be in there all day cleaning up your mess. I have a mind to send you back and make you help, but you would only make it worse as you are now.”

“I could help you sleep,” Saurfang offered suggestively, rather than showing any sort of remorse. He leaned a little more of his weight on Anduin, and his other hand came up to slip into the front of Anduin’s robe.

“No you don’t,” Anduin snapped. He flung Saurfang’s wandering hand away from him. “I’m taking you to your own chambers. You can sleep it off there.”

“Sleep _with_ me.”

Anduin grimaced. It was getting harder and harder to maneuver through the halls with an entire orc bearing down upon him. “I don’t much feel like that right now, Varok,” he said honestly, and with no effort at being nice about it. “This sort of thing might be acceptable in Orgrimmar, but I expect better judgment from you. And a great deal more respect for those in my service.”

Saurfang was quiet after that, and he kept his hands to himself. Anduin thought perhaps he was already beginning to sober up from his misadventure, despite lacking any sort of basis for that assumption. He didn’t know much about an orc’s constitution, after all. Though the empty bottles scattered around the kitchen had at least given him some idea of what it took to get one drunk. “We’re here,” he announced when they rounded the final corner to the guest chambers. He helped Saurfang prop himself up against the wall next to his door. There were no guards here, as Saurfang hadn’t allowed it. Not that he spent much time in his own chambers anymore, anyway. Anduin reached past him to pull the latch. “Inside,” he said.

“It was for his son.”

His hand froze on the latch. “What?”

“His son,” Saurfang repeated. “She killed him.”

So, that was what had started it all. It wouldn’t be first time Genn had become lost in his grief, but it was certainly the first time he had brought someone along with him. His anger eased somewhat, knowing that it was not merely reckless overindulgence, but something much more personal. “I know she did, Varok,” he said as gently as he could.

“She destroys everything.” Saurfang wasn’t looking at him, but his arm was still around his shoulders. He pulled Anduin closer. “She’ll try to destroy you.”

“She did try, remember?” Anduin said. “But she didn’t succeed.”

Saurfang shook his head slowly. “If I lost you, I—” With great effort he turned, and Anduin saw the raw and unguarded emotion in his eyes. A deep sadness, beyond even what had witnessed in the Stockade what felt like so long ago. It was incredibly unsettling, and a part of him wished he had never seen it. So much of his own strength was rooted in those around him, and Saurfang was certainly no exception. Anduin had never felt ashamed of that fact, but he was also forced to admit that he relied on it now more than ever. To see it so completely stripped away…

“You need to go to bed, Varok,” he said. He gave Saurfang a nudge toward the door, breaking eye contact, and sending him shuffling unevenly into the room. “Sleep. Tomorrow we’ll see what you can do to make this up to the kitchen staff.”

He closed the door again before Saurfang could answer.

 

* * *

 

 

Genn was in the throne room the next morning before Anduin arrived. He had a headache the size of the Maelstrom, and his eyes felt as though they had been filled with sand. Considering how much swill he had poured down his gullet the night before, he felt it was a genuine miracle that he could even stand.

“You’re up earlier than I would have expected,” Anduin said as he entered the room. He did not sound pleased to see it.

“Anduin, allow me to explain—”

“No need.” He sat upon the throne, arranging himself comfortably with the tails of his coat smoothed out below his legs. “I’ve already assured the cooks that you’ll be replacing their ruined stores. You may also be called upon to spend an evening or two scrubbing pots. I’ve left that at the discretion of the kitchen staff.”

Well, it was a great deal better than what he deserved, truth be told. Genn accepted his king’s judgment with a gracious nod. “I apologize for my behavior,” he added. Distantly he wondered if Saurfang would be ordered down there with him, but he kept that thought to himself.

Anduin inclined his head. “And I accept your apology.”

“Where is Lord— _ah_.” Genn held an arm out in the direction of where Saurfang was lumbering into the room. He looked as though he’d seen the wrong end of a hammer. Several times. “I see I’m not the only early riser today.”

“Muzzle yourself,” Saurfang grumbled.

“Pleasant as ever.”

“With the two of you down there it should take no time at all to scrub every pot and pan spotless,” Anduin said. Genn recognized it as his polite way of telling them to keep their usual banter to themselves that morning. He obliged.

Saurfang frowned deeply, but remained similarly mute.

Genn took a bit of dark satisfaction in their shared sentence; he certainly didn’t blame Saurfang for what had happened, and in fact what he could remember of the prior evening left him rather grateful for the company. But he did still enjoy seeing him suffer every so often. “Anduin, I thought perhaps we should discuss the reports we’ve received from our garrison near—”

“Pardon the intrusion, Your Majesty; My Lords.” The towering doors at the front of the throne room swung open, admitting one of the castle guardsmen. He bowed deeply and came to a stop well back from the throne. “I come on urgent orders from General Grey at the city gates. An enemy courier was intercepted there only moments ago. An elf. She came bearing this.” He held aloft a folded page, sealed with wax and bound by a red-purple ribbon. Genn knew both on sight.

“ _Sylvanas,_ ” he growled.

“A letter? Please, let me have it,” Anduin said anxiously. The guard approached, but Genn intercepted before he could come too near the throne.

“It’s best if I open it.” He had no knowledge of any devilry the Banshee Queen could imbue within something as plain as a letter, but he wasn’t willing to take a chance that his education in magics was simply incomplete. Anduin didn’t object, though he nevertheless looked uncomfortable. The guard bowed and saw himself out, leaving the three of them alone in the throne room.

“You should destroy it,” Saurfang said. “No good can come of entertaining her schemes.”

Genn was inclined to agree. He looked to Anduin, however, and saw that the boy’s eyes were lit up with hope. That was more or less what he had expected, though he was certain they would all be greatly disappointed in short order, for a host of reasons. His finger slipped beneath the paper and broke the seal, and the ribbon fell to the floor at his feet.

He read the contents of the letter aloud.

_“To King Anduin Llane Wrynn, High King of the Alliance,_

_“Recent events in Darkshore have brought to my attention the state in which all of Azeroth has found itself; innocents, caught between warring giants, suffering for our mutual and noble desire to do what is best by our peoples.”_

He cursed. “As though she gives a damn about—”

“Genn. Continue, please.”

Genn sighed. He found his place again.

_“It is for this very reason that I reach out to you now, in both hope and concern, with a sincere wish to put an end to this brutal struggle once and for all. I believe, as I hope you do, that through discussion we might begin to heal the wounds this conflict has caused, and bring peace to those who have suffered most of all._

_“To that end, I invite you to meet with me to discuss terms of peaceful negotiation. Should you accept, we will convene in the ruins of Theramore Isle six days hence, at midday. My courier will bring word of your answer should you choose to allow her safe passage back to Horde lands. A matter I leave entirely to your judgment.”_

It read like an invitation tailored specifically to Anduin’s sense of fair play and boundless optimism. Genn fought to keep from balling the parchment in his hand as he read the rest.

_“For my part, I will bring only those members of my personal guard necessary to ensure my own safety. You may, of course, bring whatever escorts you see fit. And p—”_

He stopped. Something felt as though it had turned over in his gut. He did not want to read the next words.

“Genn?” Anduin asked. “Is there more?”

“I—” Genn glanced up at Saurfang; he was as stone-faced as always, but that could change quickly. And it would, he was certain, if he read the rest of the letter. “There isn’t much else of import on here, Anduin,” he said, hoping that would do.

Of course it wouldn't. “Read the rest, please. I need to know the contents of that letter in order to make my decision.”

Well, so much for a pleasant morning. He took a deep breath.

 _“And please, be sure to bring your… consort, as well,”_ he read slowly. _“I am certain he would relish the opportunity to be among his people once more. If only for a short time.”_

The room was silent. Genn watched Saurfang from the corner of his eye. He could see Anduin doing the same. The orc was still, and hadn’t so much as twitched since Genn had finished reading the letter.

Anduin finally spoke. “Varok?” he prompted gently.

“We should leave well ahead of when she expects. Tomorrow, if possible,” Saurfang said. “She will have sent scouts to the area already, and there may be traps waiting.” The lack of any sort of reaction to Sylvanas’ taunt was so unexpected that it took Genn a moment to realize what he’d said.

“Now, hold on just a moment.” He stepped between the two of them, facing Saurfang. “You don’t really think we’re going to accept this… _invitation_ , do you?”

The look Saurfang gave him said clearly that it didn’t matter what he thought, and Genn turned to Anduin. “You can’t—”

“It is likely this is another lie,” Anduin agreed over his objections. “Or worse still, the bait for a trap. But if there is even a chance that she may be as sincere as she claims, or that by going we might gain some sort of advantage or concession from the Horde, then I have no choice but to accept. Before all else, I _must_ think of what is best for the Alliance.”

“She is determined to kill you. Is serving yourself up for slaughter what’s best for the Alliance?”

He knew Anduin wouldn’t answer that, and in truth he hadn’t expected him to. It left the three of them in an uncomfortable stalemate, with Genn on one side, Anduin on the other, and Saurfang firmly between the two. It was infuriating to him that he _had_ support, but the orc’s blasted resignation was keeping the two of them from presenting a united front that might, with some effort, actually sway Anduin’s thinking.

“I’d imagine you might think differently if your beloved pet asked you to stay,” he muttered bitterly.

Saurfang swept a furious gaze his way, and Anduin’s mouth fell open. “That is—”

“I misspoke,” Genn said quickly, and meant it. He gave Anduin a short bow, and tried to keep his anger from prompting him to say anything else he might come to regret. “Forgive me. Perhaps I am not so awake as I had believed. I will return to my chambers, and… prepare for the journey.”

“We will take every possible precaution, Genn,” Anduin promised. But the words met his back as he strode from throne room, and Genn couldn’t find it in himself to pretend he believed they were true. Somehow, Sylvanas would get _exactly_ what it was she wanted from this deceit. She always seemed to.

 

* * *

 

 

Saurfang watched Greymane go with a deep feeling of regret. A part of him wished he had thrown his lot in with the old wolf, and argued the foolishness of Anduin’s plan to meet with the Banshee Queen—for all the good he thought it might do. The simple fact was that Anduin had not been himself lately, and it was reflected in some of his decisions as king. The dreams Saurfang could accept as manifestations of stress, as Anduin claimed, but there was more to it than uneasy rest. Things he did not always notice in the moment, but which troubled him later. In hindsight, he often wondered if he should not have intervened, as he did now. But each time he had instead allowed his belief in the boy to overrule his own judgment, leading him to look the other way a number of times. Now, when the consequences of that inaction were so potentially dire, he found himself ashamed of his silence. And there had been so many opportunities to make his concerns known.

The most obvious, and the change which had first prompted Greymane to mention his own concerns, was Anduin’s continued reliance upon SI:7 to serve his day-to-day security needs. It had been a prudent choice to keep the guardsmen at arm’s length following his abduction, but it had been several weeks since then. More than one follow-up investigation had shown that there were no further safety concerns to be found among his guard. Yet he insisted upon keeping a single agent at his door day and night regardless, and no one else. SI:7 were skilled, true, but they were trained for subterfuge and stealth, not watching doors.

He had become, if not outright paranoid, then _wary_ , in recent days. He was also quick to anger at times, and his patience was often thin. Their discussions on the matter had led Saurfang and Greymane to agree that it was likely another result of his abduction, but they had also believed it would pass. Only it hadn’t, and what’s more, it seemed to be getting worse. Perhaps most worrying of all, he no longer seemed interested in his carefully measured approach to ruling, as he always had been. He claimed otherwise, but it wasn’t true.

“You feel the same way he does, don’t you,” Anduin said.

“It doesn’t matter what I think. You’re king.”

That deflection only earned him a frustrated growl and Anduin’s hand coming down hard on the arm of the throne. “Don’t patronize me,” he demanded. “Tell me the truth.”

Saurfang weighed his thoughts against the situation, all the while holding Anduin’s gaze as though weighing him. “I think you’re a fool if you trust her to keep even part of her word,” he said finally. “Assassins and traps you might conceivably prepare for, but whatever you can imagine, she can do worse. And she will. You would be safer inviting her into this very keep than doing as she proposes and traveling to Theramore.”

“Invite the Banshee Queen to Stormwind. And you believe _I’m_ being rash.”

“Then do neither,” he said plainly. “Decline her invitation, and make your proposals in ink. If she is truly dedicated to peace, as she claims, then she will not balk at any opportunity. Even one delivered by courier, rather than the king himself across a negotiating table.”

“Do you imagine Sylvanas will respond well to that sort of insult?” Anduin asked.

Saurfang shook his head. “No, but I do not imagine her overtures of peace hold any truth, either. I would prefer to see you safe, and sitting upon that very throne, than watch you throw your life away for a desperate grasp at an illusion. _That_ is how I feel.”

They were harsh words, and they had been delivered harshly. Saurfang knew Anduin— _his_ Anduin—would have weighed them carefully. He would have looked inward, pitting the criticism against the wisdom of his late father, and the teachings of his mentors. He would have considered the matter from every conceivable angle before making the final decision. Even if that decision was ultimately the same, he would have at least given conflicting views the respect they deserved.

But there was no moment of introspection. No thought to it. Anduin simply shook his head. “We’re going,” he said. “And you are welcome to remain if you wish, but I cannot ignore this opportunity. I _will_ not.”

He had known that would be Anduin’s choice from the start. All his dissent had served to do was place himself on one side of a divide, with Anduin facing him from the other.

Perhaps throwing in with the old wolf hadn’t been so wise, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided I'm going to finish out the arc with this story. That means it may end up being anywhere from 7 to 10 chapters long. I don't want to guess now, because I'm sure I'll be wrong, but there is still a fairly long way to go before the end.

They had set sail from Stormwind under the cover of night, arriving in Theramore swiftly, and by whatever strange luck guided them, without incident. The sun had not yet broken the horizon when the first of the small boats were sent ashore carrying Shaw and his people, dispatched with orders to scout the southernmost ruins of the city and secure the location of the meeting. Upon their return the rest of the company and crew were ordered ashore, and a small, temporary landing site was established. By the time the infernal fog had finally burned away to reveal the shattered landscape that surrounded them, the hour was approaching midday. Two days out from the scheduled arrival of Sylvanas and her forces.

It had surprised Saurfang to find that any of the structures in Theramore had survived, knowing what he did of the city’s fate. He had not been to see the ruins himself—he had not felt any particular need to—but as he surveyed the isle from the deck of the _Valor’s Edge_ , he could see that he had indeed been remiss. Garrosh’s arrogance and bloodlust had been his responsibility to help mold, to tame, and redirect toward the greater good of the Horde. Instead, the arrogant fool had thrown it all away in the bloody pursuit of his own glory, and become hopelessly mired in the tangled grasp of powers too great for even his will to conquer. Garrosh had been one of his early failures, but by no means his first.

“Comfortable?” Greymane asked behind him. He turned to find the human leaning against a set of open-rung steps, arms across his chest. The hint of a smile tugged at his whiskered cheeks.  
  
Saurfang frowned at him and shook his head. “No,” he answered honestly. “I’ve never much cared for swamps.” He preferred sunlight and warmth, not wet, heavy air that filled the lungs as though it aimed to deny one’s very breath. Even the insidious chill of Northrend had not bothered him so.  
  
Greymane hummed thoughtfully. “Is that so?” he asked. “I would have thought you’d feel right at home here in this... _fetid mire_.” He flicked an insect from his sleeve, as if to emphasize his disdain. “Well, I suppose it makes sense. You’d sink right in, wouldn’t you.”  
  
“Are you finished?”  
  
“For the moment.” Greymane joined him without waiting for an invitation, setting his hands upon the wooden rail to look out over the murky waters that surrounded Theramore. “So,” he began, almost too casually, “how did you find the crossing?”  
  
“No one tried to kill me this time.”  
  
“A marked improvement, to be sure.” He cleared his throat. “I… spoke with the captain—”

“Whatever you’ve come to say, say it, old wolf. I have no patience for subtlety today.” Annoyed, Saurfang shifted in his armor, and grimaced as he noted the way it pulled in places. He had not worn it for some time. Another oversight.

Greymane finally spoke plainly: “Anduin isn’t himself,” he said.  
  
“No,” Saurfang agreed, “he isn’t.”  
  
“Did he speak to you at all? Have you seen him?” All effort at pretense had been abandoned; it was the most unguarded he had seen the old wolf since the night they made camp in the Barrens. Anduin’s strange behavior must have truly unsettled him.  
  
“I kept to the deck during the voyage,” Saurfang answered. “It seemed wisest.” He still remembered the ordeal that had been their return from Darkshore. Anduin had been particularly ill-tempered during the journey, and his mood had not improved until they were once more ashore in Stranglethorn. Even the relatively short period spent securing safe transportation from the goblin port had been marked by his constant snappish remarks and unusual impatience. For a time Saurfang had, as with so many recent changes to the young king’s demeanor, blamed it on the rigors of his ordeal. Greymane had instead proposed his own, much simpler theory that Anduin simply didn’t like to sail. It was beginning to seem as though they had both been very, very wrong.  
  
Greymane seemed to consider his answer carefully, and from the corner of his eye Saurfang was surprised to note how little the old king was holding back. His brow was drawn and tightly furrowed, and his mouth was pressed into a deep frown. To anyone else it might have appeared as though he was only seconds from descending into a rage, but Saurfang knew him better now. He was terrified for the boy, and doing a poor job of hiding his fear. “I worry Darkshore may have had more of an effect on him than even we realized,” Greymane said, shaking his head. “We may have made a grave mistake, rushed him in his recovery.”  
  
“And what was the alternative, exactly?” Saurfang asked. “Deny him his throne?”  
  
“No, of course not, but certainly you and I—I am not suggesting _treason_ , orc. That may be the way your kind deals with unsatisfactory leadership, but not the Alliance. Not in Stormwind.” His long coat ruffled in the rank breeze. He took a moment to breathe deeply several times. “No,” he continued, calmer now, “nothing so drastic. But Anduin needed time. He needed to rest. Instead he was thrust back into the heart of this blasted conflict, both feet on the ground again before he could so much as catch his breath.”  
  
“You are right. But do you believe he would have allowed himself the time he needed, had it been offered?”  
  
It didn’t take a great deal of thought for either of them to come to the same conclusion on that regard; Anduin, for all his protestations, would never have rested as much as his body required. He had complained bitterly to Saurfang, and even dragged his feet melodramatically the morning after their return, when he was expected in the throne room, but he had nevertheless gone. He had seen to his duty, and if he’d felt any lingering exhaustion—difficult to imagine, given how he had all but bounded about his chambers—he hid it well.  
  
“He cannot keep going this way,” Greymane said, careful to avoid giving an answer. It was clear that he, like Saurfang, struggled with the difficulty of casting doubt upon the king. Anduin was more than capable of being wrong, and Saurfang had rarely hesitated to share his thoughts when he felt circumstances required his input. But this was… different. This was true doubt, and neither he nor Greymane seemed to want to lay that shadow across the throne. To believe that Anduin, always so good and reasonable, might have lost his way.

What came next from him was not what Saurfang had intended, and until the words were hanging in the air between them, he had hardly even realized he’d spoken. Nor had he considered the truth of the question that tumbled from his lips. “What if it’s not him?” he asked.  
  
Greymane’s eyes narrowed to thin slits, and he made a face. “Not him? What do you mean by that?”  
  
Saurfang hesitated. It was a dangerous thought, but not one without merit. Anduin _was_ good, and reasonable, and to see him begin to abandon those virtues, even in the wake of a trauma, was more than simply unexpected. He wondered, perhaps foolishly, if it was not some outside interference that had forced the change in him. “Not exhaustion at all, not even what he endured in Darkshore,” he explained—or tried to, anyway. In truth he wasn’t certain he understood it himself. It was little more than a feeling, a vague but persistent sense of unease. “These past weeks I’ve seen changes in him, heard things… He wore that blasted relic for what may have been days. We know what it did, but have you or I or even _he_ ever questioned  _how?_ That perhaps—”  
  
A sudden cry arose from the sailors around them, interrupting before Saurfang could say more. Greymane hopped up and stretched himself over the rail to look north, arching his body to see what had caused the commotion. He let out a muttered curse and sneered as he dropped back to his feet on the deck. “See for yourself,” he said.  
  
Saurfang had no intention of pitching himself over the side attempting to emulate the worgen’s acrobatics. Instead he turned and climbed the ladder to the forecastle. He had not even cleared the deck when he spied the dark sails of a Forsaken ship slicing through the fog ahead.

“Two days early,” Greymane said below him. “I should have known she wouldn’t keep her word.”

Activity had picked up around the whole of the ship, and it seemed all hands were abruptly engaged in some vitally important task. Through the crowded deck below Saurfang spotted Anduin emerging from the interior cabins. He was once more clad in his gleaming suit of armor, and he carried the lion’s head helm in the crook of one arm. His father’s sword was strapped to his back. While Saurfang was relieved to see that Anduin took the threat of Sylvanas’ presence seriously, he was nevertheless mildly troubled by the sight. He simply didn’t know _why_.

A swarm of deckhands appeared and one of the ship’s boats was hastily rigged to lower, and amidst the chaos Shaw climbed in with two of his men. Saurfang backed down the steps and joined Greymane as Anduin approached. “The _Banshee’s Wail_ is flying a flag of peace,” Anduin said, though he at least sounded skeptical about it. “The captain has informed me that a boat was dispatched moments ago bearing the warchief’s emissaries. Shaw will meet with them to discuss this change in plans.”

“A _change in plans?_ She’s arrived well ahead of the agreed upon day. This is clearly an attempt at an ambush!” Greymane insisted.

“We arrived early, Genn. By what right should we expect Sylvanas to do any different?”

Greymane growled and swatted a hand at his rebuttal, turning away to glare balefully at the now-anchored Forsaken ship, rather than argue. Anduin turned searching eyes upon Saurfang. “Do you have any idea what we should expect from the warchief?” he asked.

Saurfang wanted to laugh. _Treachery_ , he thought. But rather than offering the same cold and clearly unwelcome truth, he only said, “I do not know.” He had warned Anduin more than once already, urged caution time and again, and now they were moored bow to bow with the enemy. He would risk his place at the negotiating table if he raised another objection now, he was sure of it. Regardless of whatever inner disharmony drove Anduin’s recent spate of irrational behavior, he could not be allowed to face Sylvanas unprotected. And while Saurfang was certain the old wolf would do an admirable job, he was but one man.

“I suppose we’ll have to see what Shaw reports upon his return, in that case,” Anduin sighed. He did not seem satisfied by the exchange, but nor did he press the matter.

Shaw returned a short time later bearing a list of terms _requested_ by the warchief and her landing party. Security measures, mainly. As though she did not have several dozen armed soldiers and a host of her own dark rangers likely waiting in the wings. Anduin agreed to all, of course, and Shaw was dispatched once more to play messenger. It was almost certain that he was simultaneously gathering whatever information he could glean from the Horde emissaries and his own proximity to the _Banshee’s Wail_. As was his nature. That information would more than likely become relevant later, once the facade of goodwill had been left behind in Theramore.

They were to go ashore, Anduin and Sylvanas first, followed by their respective seconds. All others would remain at the landing site or aboard the ship. It was left unspoken that any attempt at breaching the perimeter of the meeting itself would result in swift and violent reproach.

All around them the sky of Theramore rippled and sparked, a remnant of the arcane power that had torn through the city the day Garrosh dropped his mana bomb upon its inhabitants. The Alliance participants had all been duly warned of potential risks by a visiting mage of the Kirin Tor, and supposedly protected from any lingering residue that might, over time, cause them harm. Under any other circumstances Saurfang might have been skeptical, thinking little of such precautions when it was clear others had come and gone in the time since the city’s destruction. Theramore was different. He had personally felt the faint charge in the air during his short time ashore that morning, while the ship’s crew had been hard at work securing their landing site. It electrified the air, like the half-second leading up to a lightning strike. Theramore even _smelled_ differently from the rest of the swamp that surrounded it.

“I don’t know how much I trust these _wards,_ ” Greymane complained, his disdain lingering on the last word. He lifted his arms to peer at himself, as though he could somehow see the protective spells that had been placed upon him before departing Stormwind.

“Archmage Noralla has assured me that we should be safe from any potential energies that still linger in the city,” Anduin said matter-of-factly. He seemed to have the utmost faith in the wisdom of the mages.

Greymane’s scowl made it clear how little he thought of that reassurance. “ _Should_ be safe,” he grumbled. “We would be safe for certain back in Stormwind.”

“Would you feel better if you remained on the ship, old wolf?” Saurfang asked, knowing full well the answer. He clapped Greymane on the back, making him stumble a step under the laughably mild blow. The gesture of camaraderie earned him a withering glare.

“You’ve been at sea too long,” Greymane wheezed slightly. He sniffed and straightened up, righting the lines of his long coat as he said, “I’ll see to the preparations for our departure.” He offered Anduin a quick bow. His shoulder clipped Saurfang’s on the way past, but the effort only succeeded in throwing him out of step again as he bounded off the thick plate and muscle. His resulting complaints could be heard all the way to the other end of the ship.

“I know you had your doubts about this mission,” Anduin said to him once Greymane had gone, “but I am glad that you came.”

“I would never leave you to face her alone.” He did not need to mention that he still had those same doubts. Their exchange earlier would have made that much clear.

Anduin nodded. “I know that things have been difficult for some time now. I wish I could offer an explanation that would satisfy you.” He looked up, wearing a small smile upon his pink lips. “Would you accept a promise that I will do all I can to make it up to you when we return home?”

 _Home_. Saurfang felt the word lift his own burdened soul for a few wonderful seconds. He could almost forget his nebulous fears, almost set them aside in favor of basking in the feeling of contentment that surrounded him when he thought of quieter moments. It might just be that the old wolf was right, and Anduin simply needed more time. A chance to work through his experience in Darkshore. He wanted to believe that. For himself and for Anduin. “Perhaps you can make it up to me even sooner,” he said. His eyes flicked to the door that led down into the belly of the ship, where the sleeping quarters were located.

“Do you imagine there is enough privacy on a ship for a proper… apology?” Anduin asked shyly.

Saurfang laughed, startling the sailors around them. “Do you imagine I care?” He looked down and drank in the effect his words had on his king: Anduin’s cheeks were stained a faint pink, and his eyes had become dark and glassy. If not for the Forsaken ship looming just off their bow he might have dragged Anduin back to his cabin and taken his apology now. He leaned down just enough to create the illusion of privacy, and said, “ _Let them hear_.”

“Varok…”

“I have missed you these past nights,” Saurfang confessed. He hooked his fingers around the curve of Anduin’s breastplate, at the juncture of his arm and his chest. Beneath his palm lay the repairs that covered what had once been an ugly gouge in the otherwise immaculate armor.

Anduin offered him an apologetic smile, but nothing more. His gaze fell upon the blue-grey horizon of the open sea, and he stepped back, almost out of reach—almost. Unprepared to hold him, Saurfang’s hand slipped from the gold and silver armor, his fingers brushing the rough scar of the reforged metal as Anduin turned and walked away without another word. He could only stare after the king— _his_ king—and wonder how it had come to be that he seemed to know Anduin less and less with each passing day.

 

* * *

 

  
The instructions sent back with Shaw were simple and to the point. They would meet in two hours’ time. The Alliance had arrived first, and so had taken the liberty of preparing the meeting place, and in return Sylvanas had sent her scouts to inspect their work and deem the site safe for their warchief. In exchange for the _privilege_ of being the first to arrive, a compensatory demand had been made: neither vessel would depart Theramore before the other. It was a strange request, but one that could easily be met with reasonable assurance that it would not result in damages for either side.

At the end of the two hours, Anduin climbed aboard a rowboat bound for Theramore Isle.

Sylvanas was waiting for him on the ruined sands just beyond the city wall. She stood alone, unarmed. Anduin was at first relieved to note that she was without her ornate bone-and-sinew longbow, the weapon he had seen her brandish only too many times in the past. But then he recalled Lordaeron, and how close she had come to ending his life with no weapon at all. Her empty hands no longer seemed so reassuring in the shadow of his memories.

As Anduin crossed the distance to meet his adversary, a second figure appeared. Through the grey light it resolved into the dark shape of Nathanos Blightcaller, Sylvanas’ champion, and her chosen second for the negotiations. He would serve the same role as Genn and, to an extent, Saurfang. Whether that role would ultimately require anything more than silent support remained to be seen.

There was a sizable tent erected where once the start of a dock had stood. For the moment the sides were rolled up and secured, creating a sort of open-air pavilion, and demonstrating that no surprises lurked within. It would be lowered once all attending were seated at the table inside. Anduin reached it at roughly the same time Sylvanas did, and together, eyes locked upon one another, they entered. She sat first, lounging easily and clasping her long, slender hands together atop the wooden table. She smiled as though they were merely two old friends reuniting for the first time in ages, rather than bitter enemies searching for a way to outwit one another at any cost. Truer to the bloody history between them, the gesture held no warmth, showed no sign of affection. Sylvanas was there to fulfill a purpose of her own design, and he was certain false pleasantries were simply a necessary inconvenience.

“Warchief Sylvanas,” Anduin greeted politely. He inclined his head as a sign of respect, and remained standing until Saurfang, Genn, and Blightcaller entered the tent on their respective sides. The walls were unrolled and lowered, giving the meeting the privacy it required.

Blightcaller took a seat to the right of his queen, and Anduin finally sat upon his own chair across from the two. Genn and Saurfang flanked him protectively from their seats on either side of his, and Anduin couldn’t help a small smile. From the corner of his eye he noted with surprise that Saurfang was wearing the Horde tabard he had not donned for some time. Not since the ill-fated night of their training yard match, in fact. It was a message; an act of defiance, aimed at Sylvanas. Anduin knew it, and he even respected it, but a part of him could not help but feel as though it also meant something more. That one day, when the war was finally over, he would return to the Horde.

He thought of their morning spent together after Darkshore. Of his own fumbling confession when asked about the unexpected gift he had chosen to bestow that day. It was nothing particularly outstanding, only simple clothing, but Saurfang had reacted with surprise, and, Anduin thought sadly, perhaps even a bit of suspicion. He had asked for an explanation.

 _“I suppose… because I had hoped you might like to stay,”_ he’d shyly admitted. He had been terrified of a reply, but at the same time eager. In a nervous rush, he had nearly gone on to reveal feelings he was certain at the time would be outright rejected. As it was, Saurfang had seemed anxious to discuss almost anything else, and had instead swiftly called attention to the tabard Genn had left for him. It was for the best, Anduin had decided then. Better to leave things unspoken. He didn’t need to know what Saurfang’s answer would have been.

 _He would have laughed. Laughed and looked down upon such weak, sentimental nonsense. Love? What good is that to an orc?_ a voice in his own mind mocked. _No more than a foolish, idealistic whim._

He frowned and forcibly set those thoughts aside. They were not necessary for the current circumstances, and they were certainly not helpful, either.

“I am relieved to see you well, Your Highness,” Sylvanas said, the interruption pulling him from his own mind. Her honeyed words carried no more sincerity than her false smile did. All mere camouflage. She must have seen something of his uncertainty, because she smirked and added, “And in such high spirits, too. I must thank you for the kind return of my courier, and the escort you so thoughtfully provided her back to Horde lands.” She did not move her head, but her eyes snapped to Genn beside him. She sneered, “Greymane.”

Though he glared daggers across the table, Genn did not answer, and Anduin was grateful for it. If they lasted the hour without an incident that further inflamed the war he would consider it a gift. He made an effort to spare them all further difficulty by opening the negotiations right away, and hopefully redirecting Sylvanas’ attention onto himself. He cleared his throat and said, “Of course, I am equally pleased to find you so… Well, seeing as we have only a short time, perhaps we should begin by discussing the—”

“It pleases me most of all to see you’ve brought my former ally back to Kalimdor with you, despite what I am certain must have been a hard journey for his old bones.” She turned a mocking leer on Saurfang, making a show of looking him over slowly. Beside her, Blightcaller chuckled into the back of his gloved hand. “Tell me, Saurfang, how have you fared since your capture?” she asked. “I hear word you’ve secured much more obliging accommodations since.”

Saurfang shifted in his seat, and Anduin quickly cleared his throat to forestall any sort of response. He had been worried about Genn, but there was no telling how Saurfang might react if Sylvanas managed to find a way to get under his skin. No doubt she knew several.

As though she could read his mind, Sylvanas said to Blightcaller, “My, how obedient he’s become.” She turned her vicious grin on the other end of the table. “If only I had known how easily I might have brought him to heel, though I admit to some hesitation when faced with the means by which you accomplished such a feat, Your Majesty. It must have been very… _exhausting_ work.”

“Sylvanas, we are here to discuss the war. This was meant to be a peaceful negotiation,” Anduin reminded her. “A promise that was penned by your own hand.”

“Indeed. And so it shall be. I only wished to inquire after your well-being and that of your coterie, King Anduin. For instance, I wonder,” she intoned cheerfully, the sound of it making Anduin’s skin crawl, “do you find it difficult to sit comfortably upon your throne these days?”

“How _dare_ you!” Genn hissed, but Anduin put a hand out to stop him before he could rise.

“No, Genn.” His own face was hot with embarrassment, and he was sure Sylvanas and her puppet could see it, and likely reveled in it, but he refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing him falter. He would not allow Genn to do it, either.

“The control you wield over your subordinates is impressive, Majesty. With such talents you might have made a fine houndmaster,” Sylvanas said, mocking him with her eyes as she lashed out with words. “It is a pity you have only been able to engage your skills in private.”

Anduin could hear the leather of Genn’s gloves creaking in his balled fists, and to his right Saurfang’s shoulders were heaving in silent rage. He was losing control of the situation already, and they had barely been seated for five minutes. “Sylvanas—”

“Tell me, do you order the dog from your chambers while your favored consort sees to your needs?” She lowered her voice until it was little more than a conspiratorial rasp. “Or does he remain curled up at the foot of your bed?”

“That is enough!” Genn roared. He nearly toppled the table as he shot to his feet, sending his chair flying back into the unrolled wall of the tent. “Another word from you and I will see an end to your miserable existence here on this very island!” he snarled. Anduin could hear the deepening tone, and knew from experience that his transformation was imminent. That could not be allowed to happen.

“You will control yourself,” he said in no uncertain terms, “or you will leave.”

Genn rounded on him, his face twisted in rage. “You cannot be serious!”

“I am. Take your seat.”

Reluctantly, Genn did as he’d been told. He watched Anduin as he violently righted his chair, and did not look away again until he was sitting. The sound of his breathing dominated the silence that had descended upon the gathering.

“My, I seem to have struck a nerve. I must apologize.” Sylvanas eyed them all with growing amusement, and her ruby eyes glittered in the muted light of the tent. “I had no idea things were so tense among the royal court—what there is left of it, of course. I must say, your father would have been proud of you, King Anduin. He spent much of his life seeking a way to conquer the orcs; you appear to have done so in a fraction of the time. Perhaps if he had brought you to the negotiating table earlier...”

It was Saurfang who acted this time; he rose slowly from his chair, knuckles curled atop the table. His eyes were cast downward at its surface, but his nostrils flared and the swell of his muscles strained against his armor and its leather binding. “The next words that fall from your poisoned lips had best be tidings of peace, Sylvanas, or the wolf will not need to end you: I will tear the head from your shoulders myself.”

“Out, now!” Anduin found himself speaking before he had even realized what he was saying. He stood, the plates of his armor scraping and clanking loudly as he moved. With one arm raised he pointed in the direction of the Alliance camp. “Both of you.”

Genn sputtered wordlessly, and Saurfang huffed a defiant snort, but they were wise enough to obey. Embarrassed and furious at their lack of control, Anduin watched as they grudgingly left the table. He heard a quiet chuckle behind him.

“You too,” he said, whipping around to face Sylvanas’ minion.

Blightcaller stopped laughing. He turned wide, scarlet eyes upon his queen, but she merely flicked her hand to dismiss him. The fight instantly went out of the undead archer. He stood, sneered at Anduin as though he had somehow enacted a great personal betrayal, and turned to leave with the others.

At the last second Sylvanas’ silvery voice brought him to a halt. “Perhaps our old friends would be kind enough to offer you a tour of the city, Nathanos,” she said, her eyes burning into Anduin’s. “After all, why waste the opportunity.”

It was a challenge, and Anduin was forced to concede. He had taken a liberty that was not his when he ordered Blightcaller out of the tent, and now Sylvanas was pushing back. It was hardly an imposition, at least. Provided Genn and Saurfang didn’t murder her champion before the hour was through. “I’m sure they would be honored to do so,” he said. Judging by the silence at his back he was certain that they both understood it had not been intended as a suggestion. From the corner of his eye he watched Blightcaller cross the tent to join the others, and then listened as they left together, his heart in his throat the whole time. So much could go wrong in the blink of an eye.

“Perhaps you can settle an idle curiosity of mine, Greymane,” he heard Blightcaller begin cheerfully as the three marched together into the nearby ruins. “When you shift into that beastly form of yours, what becomes of—”

He was grateful that distance prevented him from hearing the rest.

Now alone with Sylvanas, Anduin suddenly felt as though a chill had gripped the air around them. Theramore had once been a home away from home to him, a place of solace and reflection. Jaina had given him refuge when he’d needed it most, and he had learned a great deal in his short time on the isle. More than a human prince might be privileged to learn under better circumstances. But it was a welcoming hearth no longer, and Sylvanas had brought him to its remains for a reason. The wisdom he had gained from many bitter and troubling experiences told him that her taunts had struck targets selected well ahead of time. Her cruelty was not without purpose. She had wanted him alone, and unsettled, and now she had both.

A slow, wicked smile curved the corners of Sylvanas’ dark lips. She leaned into the table, a lithe beast preparing to bear down upon wounded prey. “Now that it is just the two of us, Little Lion,” she said, her words curling like smoke, “we can discuss the _true_ purpose of this meeting.”

 

* * *

 

  
Anduin emerged from the tent a short time later. Genn had only just rid himself of Blightcaller’s company moments before the two leaders concluded their business, if it could be called such, and the vile sycophant had promptly slithered back to his mistress’ side. If only he could have been certain of Anduin’s safety while he was alone with that treacherous hag, Genn might have simply rid Azeroth of her vile little lackey once and for all.

They returned to the _Valor’s Edge_ , silent as the still waters that surrounded them. Anduin had not met his eye for some time, and Genn found himself troubled by the hard set of the boy’s shoulders. Surely the banshee had said something that unsettled him, but what? Not for the first time, Genn cursed himself for allowing his temper to get the better of him. Sylvanas had needled them both until they could not contain their anger, and like fools they had all but leapt at the bait. A dark part of him wanted dearly to shift the blame to Saurfang’s enormous shoulders, but even he knew that his part in their dismissal had been equal to the orc’s.

The silent vigil continued until they were once more aboard the ship. Genn had only just set his boots down upon the deck when Anduin said, “In my cabin, both of you.” His surprisingly quick stride carried him into the ship and out of sight while Genn and Saurfang hastened to follow.

“Anduin, what’s happened? What did she say?” Genn demanded as he entered the room. He looked about the well-appointed quarters to find Anduin standing at a porthole, his back to the door. The anxiety was like fleas crawling through Genn’s fur; leaving the boy alone with that monster had been a mistake. Already his mind was running wild with possibilities, each more terrifying than the last. “What did she _do?_ ” he insisted.

Saurfang spoke up before Anduin could answer. “She wanted only the two of you in that tent,” he said. “Whether or not you know it, she has achieved what she was after. Now we must find a way to stop her from turning it to her benefit.”

Genn found himself nodding along in agreement. They were, at least for the moment, in accord over their mutual distrust of the wretched banshee. She had manipulated the situation with all the subtlety of a hammer, and they were all likely dancing to her tune now.

Anduin had moved away from the porthole and taken a seat by the writing table beside his bed. He seemed… lost. That alone was greatly worrying, but when Anduin closed his eyes for just a moment, his face an unguarded portrait of grief, Genn thought he felt his heart cease to beat.

The wash of emotion was gone almost as quickly as it had come, but Anduin still could not fully hide his distress—not from him. It bled through his voice as he spoke. “Sylvanas has offered to withdraw all Horde troops from Darkshore, and cede control of the region to the Alliance, effective immediately,” he said.

“That—” Greymane froze midway to the next word, as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing, and the sound refused to crawl up from his throat to admit it. “That is—well, it's certainly unexpected,” he said finally, if still a bit unsteady even to his own ears. He quickly collected himself and added, “But I am convinced she’ll want something in return, if she hasn’t asked already.”

“Indeed she has.” Anduin’s eyes fell upon Saurfang then, and all at once Genn knew what it was Sylvanas required. He knew before Anduin had even drawn the breath to say it. “The price she has demanded,” Anduin said quietly, “is Saurfang’s life.”

 

* * *

 

 

All three were silent. A heaviness hung in the air. Anduin maintained his steady gaze, his blue eyes impossible to read behind the same mask of indifference he had forced upon himself during the meeting. Saurfang thought he saw sadness there, lingering at the edges of the young king’s steely resolve, but perhaps that was merely wishful thinking.

Perhaps it had all been wishful thinking.

“I accept.”

Beside him Greymane scoffed in disbelief. “Hold on, you—” He looked imploringly at the other two, as though they simply did not see what he saw. “You cannot simply hand yourself over to her. It is out of the question!”

In the back of his mind Saurfang knew that Greymane’s objections stemmed as much from his own grudging and hard-earned fondness as a staunch refusal to bow to any demands of the Banshee Queen. He appreciated it all the same, and in truth he was grateful for it. They had not been allies long, but he had come to respect the old wolf. He was certain that respect was mutual.

Anduin finally looked away, breaking the charge between them, and Saurfang turned to his unlikely defender. “It is my life to give,” he said plainly. He made no attempt to argue, and would not explain his decision. It was not required. Sylvanas offered a prize too vital to refuse when the price for it was so low. He said as much, and Greymane growled angrily.

“And what precedent will it set if you agree to these outrageous terms? What demands might she make in the future? No, the conditions are unacceptable. If even one life is worthless, then so are they all.”

Saurfang shook his head. “This is not about the lives of Alliance citizens, Greymane. It is personal. A grudge Sylvanas seeks to satisfy with blood. She does it to weaken the Alliance, to force your hand, but regardless of the reasons why, you _must_ agree.”

“We _must_ do nothing!”

“Be reasonable, you fool! Innocents have bled for this, they continue to bleed for it, fighting to reclaim lands now offered for a price only _you_ deem too high to pay!” He turned back to Anduin and said, “You may tell the Banshee Queen I agree to her terms.”

“Wait just a moment, you have _no right_ to make this decision!” Greymane objected, his voice rising again. “The king alone may decide what becomes of your miserable life!”

“It is _my_ life to give, old wolf, and I choose to give it. Save yourself the trouble of snapping and snarling over it until you reach the same conclusion. I will go, and the Alliance will reclaim Darkshore.” He stood straight, as willing as he had always been to face his own past. “It is only fitting. I helped to conquer it, it should be me who pays for its return.”

Greymane’s hand sliced through the air. He shouted, “She will kill you! Torture you!”

“She can do nothing to me that I have not already suffered, in mind or body. I do not fear her or her minions.”

For a moment it seemed as though the Gilnean king had accepted that he could not win; that it was a futile fight against the inevitable. But then he growled a curse and said, “If you go, you will take with you untold potential to devastate the Alliance war effort. Do you want that on your conscience, _Lord Saurfang?_ ” he sneered. “To have the secrets with which you have been entrusted ripped away from you one by one? Have you even considered—”

“Stop it, both of you,” Anduin ordered, interrupting their standoff. He did not raise his voice, and there was no anger in his reproach. He sat upon the chair, both elbows on his armored knees. He wasn’t looking at either of them anymore. “There is nothing more to discuss. I’ve already made my decision.”

Greymane stood tall and proudly raised his chin. “You will do what is best for the Alliance,” he said, confident as ever in his king. “I trust you know what that is.”

Anduin nodded his head in agreement. “I do,” he said quietly. “That is why I accepted her offer.” He looked up and met the shock in Greymane’s eyes with his own unwavering stare. “I accepted it before leaving the tent.”

Greymane appeared to hover in place like a tangled marionette, and then all at once he came to life again, and it all spilled forth in a furious rush. “You cannot possibly mean that! You don’t know what you’ve done, what you’ve given her—” His chest was heaving, the words he spoke panicked and filled with outrage on Saurfang’s behalf. “She’ll kill him,” he hissed. “She’ll _kill him_.” For the length of a single heartbeat he looked upon Anduin as though he did not know him at all. “Anduin, what have you _done?_ ”

“What is best for the Alliance, Genn.” Anduin turned his gaze on Saurfang then, and the sadness that he had kept at bay now seemed to flow freely through him. He stood up from the chair, donning the mien of king for just a moment more. “Tomorrow morning you will be transferred to the custody of the Horde,” he said, his voice detached and even. “As a condition of your surrender, and per the terms of the agreement struck today, you will be chained. A caravan will take you by road to Orgrimmar.”

Saurfang nodded. He had expected Sylvanas’ terms would include some attempt to humiliate him. Distantly he had even been aware that death was a possibility. He was ashamed to admit he had hoped for something better, and that he had become accustomed to the new life he had made for himself and the connections he had forged. Living for a purpose, for more than the hope of a glorious death, had been good. For a time.

“Anduin, please,” Greymane pleaded, “do not allow her to do this.”

“She hasn’t done anything, Genn.” Anduin scrubbed a gloved hand over his face and sighed. “This is the only way. I am prepared to pay the price to spare as many lives as possible.”

Greymane scowled, and his reply came harsh and cutting. “ _He_ is prepared to pay the price,” he said angrily, storming from the cabin in a whirl of silver and snarled curses. The door slammed shut behind him. He had not been cruel enough to say what they all knew he wished to. But even so, it was clear from his face that Anduin nevertheless bore the wound from those unspoken words: _Are you?_


	3. Chapter 3

_“I’m sure you want to be alone right now. I’ll see to it you aren’t disturbed.”_

It had been hours. Hours since the news had come that he would die. Hours since Greymane had left, furious, and Anduin had followed him with hardly a word. Saurfang had spent those hours in silence, save for the gentle lap of the waves upon the ship’s hull. The portholes he’d opened, allowing the salt air to fill the room. The foul weight of the wet swamp had come with it, but he did not care.

Death was a warrior’s constant companion. An inevitable end to a life lived on the edge of a blade. He had welcomed death for some time now, trapped as he was between his own sorrows and the weariness of so many tremendous and terrible deeds. At times he had even sought it for himself. Certainly he had opened his arms to it at Lordaeron. He was born meant for a warrior’s death, and he accepted that fate, relished it. But not… not yet. Not _now_.

It was at odds with everything he had ever known, this sudden desire to live. He was furious with himself for being so weak, becoming some mewling coward who would plead with fate for more time. And yet he was filled with an ache for life so powerful he felt it deep within his bones. He knew what caused it, knew _who_ caused it, but that did not bring him comfort. He would have gladly given his life for Anduin, and would do so now for those he had wronged, but the time and _manner_ in which he was to die felt…

Unfair.

Saurfang huffed a quiet laugh at his own expense. As though death held any regard for fair or unfair. Unfair was a glorious life cut short in its prime; an innocent slaughtered in cold blood; a family burned at the whims of a monster. Fair was a death earned many times over, and a warrior who had committed more than his share of wrongdoings, now facing the charge of those crimes and answering their cost with his blood. He had no more right to complain of _unfair_ than he had to wish for another moment with a golden-haired, gentle king, who had spared him more warmth and trust than he ever deserved. No, his death was not unfair. Not by any means.

Why, then, did he still dread it so deeply?

He thought on that for some time, his mind lost upon paths that seemed to wind throughout the day. His last day. Too soon he realized it was nearly night, and the light around him was no longer scattered sun, but small, flickering flames. Through the portholes the sky was a wash of violent color, pink and purple and red where the day refused to surrender its last gasping breath. The ship’s crew and the soldiers waiting ashore would be eating their meals together. He wondered if perhaps Anduin had joined them. Saurfang did not think he could eat, even if he’d wanted to.

He knew his death was more than fair. He only wished, perhaps selfishly, that he had not ever known what he would be leaving behind.

 

* * *

 

  
Genn listened to the sailors swap stories of adventures and conquests as they enjoyed their evening meal. They knew nothing of the bargain that had been struck only hours earlier, or the bitter price the Banshee Queen had demanded. Some of the men knew; a few of the soldiers had undoubtedly overheard the second, much shorter, argument between himself and Anduin in the ship’s galley. Genn had followed him there to propose a solution that he thought would please everyone: simply kill Sylvanas. She claimed to have brought minimal forces in order to facilitate what she had so grossly mislabeled _peaceful negotiations_ —why not simply dispose of her then and there and save _all_ of Azeroth the trouble of a protracted conflict?

But Anduin had not agreed, and had even become cross with Genn for his so-called ‘flippant’ suggestion, and they had traded unkind words that now he wished he could take back. He knew the choice could not have been easy for the boy. There was no need to heap more heartache upon him. Anduin had suffered so much already, met hardship with more grace than could be expected of most men, and never abandoned his good heart for it. Whatever Genn personally thought of Varok Saurfang—and his opinion had improved greatly in recent days, even he was big enough to admit that much—he knew the blasted orc made Anduin happy. For reasons he would probably never understand. Anduin was a king, and Genn knew well that a king could count on little in his life that might bring him so much joy as a partner who understood him. Saurfang, somehow, seemed to understand Anduin in a way that suited them both remarkably well. Genn had himself seen changes in the orc, an apparent easing of whatever demons—real or otherwise—haunted his memories. And in turn Anduin had gained a kind of certainty that Genn could only credit to his time spent in the company of one who was, for lack of a better description, a living, breathing, blunt instrument. Two very disparate creatures who had nevertheless found harmony.

He smirked sadly. They were rather destined for tragedy, in the end.

Genn removed his gloves by first tugging on each finger, and then slipping the brown doeskin from his hands, folding them over before he tucked them away in his pockets. He wasn’t cold, and he didn’t need gloves. He didn’t need to be out on deck, either, but he could not imagine where else he might find his peace on such a night.

Everything he had said in Anduin’s cabin had been true. For every reason that it mattered, handing over one of the principal players in the Alliance’s war against the Horde was an unwise decision. But more than that, he had, he admitted to himself, wanted to save Saurfang. And perhaps there _was_ no other way, but that still did not mean it was _right_. They were not trading Saurfang for Darkshore, they were trading him for Sylvanas’ satisfaction, and Darkshore was merely the bait on the hook that concealed the barb. A good man was going to die. He could not ever reconcile with that, regardless of how badly the night elves desired to return to their home. He ached to see Gilneas again; he would not have thrown Mia to the grasping claws of their enemy to have that wish fulfilled.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Anduin appeared on the quarterdeck above, standing beside the captain of the _Valor’s Edge_. Likely discussing the fleet’s impending return to Darkshore. If he’d been so inclined Genn could have listened in on their conversation, but he had no wish to eavesdrop on his king. It certainly wouldn't improve matters between them. There were other sounds to compete with the exchange, anyhow. The sailors nearby had finished their meal, and had moved on from chatter to song, and one had apparently produced some sort of instrument. Genn couldn’t have identified it from sound alone, but the music it made was lively and sweet, and a soothing counterpoint to the darkness that loomed just beyond their lamplight. He listened for a time, until he heard the familiar, metallic sound of plate armor moving against itself as Anduin descended from the upper deck of the ship.

He expected Anduin would have joined him at the ship’s railing, but it seemed that was not to be. Anduin continued past, not ignoring Genn, but not making time to speak with him, either. From the corner of his eye he watched as Anduin made his way across the deck, past the guards keeping watch beside the door into the ship’s cabins. He disappeared then, but Genn knew where he was going. And he thought he knew why.

 

* * *

 

  
Anduin found Saurfang where he had left him, only instead of standing, he was sitting upon the bed, at its foot, his broad chin resting atop his entwined fingers. He was deep in thought, and did not look up. Anduin watched him for a moment, taking in the sight of this orc he cared for so dearly that it pained him. Trying hard to memorize every detail while he still had time.

Sorrow made everything feel heavier, and his armor was no exception. Anduin began to pull at the fastenings, removing first his heavy, ornate pauldrons, followed by the breastplate. Piece by piece he pulled himself from the armor that Saurfang had once mocked him for wearing into an enemy’s cell, only to leave behind the helm that would prevent him from having his neck broken like a twig. He was not wearing the helm now, but it waited nearby, set upon a writing desk by the door. Its empty eyes looked out over the room.

Removing his own armor was no easy feat; Anduin was usually helped in and out of it by his attendants, and they knew all the fastest ways to free him from what often felt like a metal cage. In time he thought he might become accustomed to wearing it, but not just yet. He had never given Saurfang the satisfaction of knowing how much he agreed with him about his armor. In fact, he much preferred the simplicity of plain linen and, at times, silk. But he could not lead a battle in a priest’s vestments. …And it seemed at some angles he could not navigate a simple buckle, either. “Would you mind helping me?” he asked. “I seem to have gotten a bit ahead of myself.”

Saurfang looked up. He stared, as though he had only just realized Anduin was in the room. Without a word he rose from the bed and came to assist, his large fingers remarkably deft even in the small spaces where the catches and buckles secured the armor to Anduin’s person. In no time at all they had freed him completely, and he bent to gather the pieces he had already shed. They had a place upon a wooden stand made specially for his use, and he swiftly set each piece in the proper location. He left the helm on the writing desk.

When he finished, he found Saurfang had returned to his vigil at the foot of the bed. This time his hands were on his knees, and he stared at nothing upon the cabin wall.

Anduin watched him, but this time the sight brought him only pain. He quickly rid himself of the leather garments that were meant to protect him beneath his armor, stripping down to his bare skin. He had no other motive, no specific desire, but naked as he was he took a moment to turn down the lamps that illuminated the room, and then crawled onto the bed behind Saurfang. At first he only waited there, unsure of what to do. Then he sat up on his knees and draped himself over the broad, muscular back before him, his arms tight around Saurfang’s chest.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

One of Saurfang’s hands came up to clasp his own, and Anduin relaxed against him. His fingers lightly stroked what skin he could reach. Saurfang had evidently rid himself of his own armor at some point, and his Horde tabard was also gone, but he remained clothed in his leather tunic and pants. It was the very same set Anduin had gifted to him the morning they woke up together for the first time. Apart from those garments his feet were bare, and he had no belt. He looked as though he had been thinking of going to sleep.

Gently, Anduin bent his head and planted a kiss upon Saurfang’s neck. He shifted a bit and did it again at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, and then again upon his ear. His fingers curled around the tunic, urging it out of the way. Saurfang obliged, and stretched his massive arms up and over his head to pull the tunic from his body. He tossed it onto the floor at his feet.

With his back now bare, Anduin’s featherlight kisses continued. Across his shoulders, down his spine until he would have had to bend to reach, and back up again so that he could take Saurfang’s pierced earlobe between his teeth. He breathed out slowly, and felt, more than heard, Saurfang’s quiet groan.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said.

Anduin didn’t answer. Instead he let his body do it for him. He reached around with one hand to undo the catch of Saurfang’s pants, and with the other he wound his fingers through soft, silver-grey hair. He dragged his lips across the arch of muscle that connected Saurfang’s neck to his great shoulders, and then scraped his teeth over a scar. “No words,” he breathed. With a final, lingering kiss, he pulled himself away and lay back upon the bed. Saurfang did not move.

Anduin pulled the leather tie from his hair and discarded it upon the table beside the bed. He reached for the glass vial he had brought from Stormwind and unstoppered the contents. While Saurfang sat turned away, Anduin spread his legs and silently set to work spreading the slick liquid and pushing it into his body, using his other hand to stroke himself to hardness as he bit his lip to stifle a moan. His neck was arched upon the pillow, and sweat had already begun to bead on his forehead. He was trembling from his own touch, his own fingers inside himself. Pleasure had driven him to shut his eyes tight, but desire made them open again. When he did he found Saurfang had turned, twisted at the waist, and was watching him intently. Anduin answered his stare by opening his legs wider, reaching a hand out in need.

Saurfang stood to draw his pants down around his thick legs and push them aside. His cock was full and wet at the tip, and Anduin swallowed hard at the sight of it.

The bed was simple, not even as large as his own back in Stormwind was, but it would do. The worn mattress sunk low as Saurfang knelt upon it, and the wooden frame that held it creaked in protest when he leaned over Anduin on his hands and knees. For a moment they only watched one another, perhaps both looking for the same reason—to take everything they could from what little time was left, and store it away. Then Anduin reached up and lightly—so lightly it could barely be called a push—urged Saurfang to the side and onto his back. The great warrior allowed himself to be moved without any protest, and when he was settled, both arms lying at his sides and his head upon the pillow, Anduin moved swiftly to sit astride his waist.

He bent first to continue the chaotic path of kisses he had begun upon Saurfang’s back, and then to take a nipple between his teeth, biting gently as he flicked the tip of his tongue across the pebbled flesh. Saurfang rumbled his pleasure, and Anduin felt it in his thighs, the vibration tickling his skin. He shifted his weight to press his own hard cock to Saurfang’s stomach. The heat of him was pleasurable in itself, but when Anduin began to move it was the taut muscle beneath his skin that nearly did him in, and forced him to stop again. He focused instead on Saurfang’s pleasure, and moved his mouth to the other side of Saurfang’s chest, replacing his lips with his fingertips as he drew the other nipple between his teeth.

A hand came down upon his back, lightly, as though afraid to touch. Anduin arched into it and made a sound not unlike a whimper, but filled with all the need he had no words to express. Answering the unspoken request, Saurfang held him tighter, and Anduin melted into it. Fingers brushed his hair, tucked some of it behind his ears, and then disappeared, only to return to caress the rounded curve of his backside. He felt a tentative touch where his own fingers had been only moments before. But Saurfang made no move to breach him. He simply brushed them over Anduin’s delicate skin, drawing circles, touching him somehow more intimately than all the times he had rushed to move inside. It was so sweet, so gentle. Anduin began to pant, he lost focus on what he had been doing. His forehead fell upon Saurfang’s chest, and he lay there, shuddering and sighing, shivers wracking his slender form.

And then his sighs turned to choked gasps, and the sweat that dripped down his face mingled with his own tears, pooling upon the scar where a spear had nearly pierced Saurfang’s heart. Anduin’s fingers dug into Saurfang’s skin, and he clung to him desperately. Not weeping outright, but silently, in convulsions that shook his whole body. Saurfang swiftly wrapped his arms around him and held him through it.

Regret and sorrow did not come close to describing his pain. After a time Anduin raised his head and looked at Saurfang through his wet lashes, in the low lamplight that cast them both into heavy shadow. He lifted himself up again until he was sitting, and Saurfang’s hands fell from his back to lay upon the tops of his open thighs. Anduin wiped his eyes on his arm, offering no apology for what had happened. He reached once more for the vial beside the bed, and then back between Saurfang’s legs. His slow strokes were as much meant to coax Saurfang’s flagged erection back to life as they were to make him slick, but Anduin took his time regardless. They had the night. There was no reason to rush. With the one arm stretched behind his back to work the growing length of Saurfang’s shaft, Anduin placed the palm of his other hand flat upon Saurfang’s abdomen. He felt strong fingers flex on his skin.

When he was ready, he lifted himself up, ignoring the quivering in his thighs, and slowly lowered himself back down and onto Saurfang’s cock. It was… not like the other times, he discovered quickly; it felt deeper somehow, fuller, and his own body weight drove him down almost faster than he could bear. He held his breath and tried to force himself to relax—a contradiction—and suddenly he was there. He was seated fully upon Saurfang’s length, and the air blew from his lungs in an explosive rush. A groan came after it, prompted more by surprise than arousal.

Tears still pricked the corners of his eyes, but Anduin no longer knew if they were remnants of his previous outburst, or something else. His body was gripped by a seemingly endless shudder, and he breathed in shallow bursts. He could feel the blush that was heating him from the tips of his ears down to his chest. Every bit of him was on full display as he struggled to adjust. Saurfang watched him, and Anduin realized he had never seen him so captivated, so obviously awed by what he beheld. The thought made him inexplicably self-conscious, and he turned his face away. It was Saurfang’s gentle touch that turned him back.

Smiling despite all the ways he hurt—in his mind and in his heart—Anduin kissed the broad palm that cupped his chin, and began to move. It was slow at first, just a tentative roll of his hips, but Saurfang reacted as though Anduin had shocked him. His body jerked and he grunted, and the steady rise and fall of his chest began to quicken. That was it, _that_ was what he’d wanted. The faster Anduin moved, the heavier Saurfang’s breathing became, the more noise he made, and Anduin responded in kind. He didn’t care who heard anymore. He didn’t care if the whole of the bay knew that they were making love. He reached for Saurfang’s hands and guided them to his waist, and the gesture prompted Saurfang to act. He bent his knees and thrust up roughly, making Anduin cry out at the sudden spike of pleasure that ripped through him. He let go then, let his hands fall from Saurfang’s wrists and travel his own body. Anduin stroked himself; he touched his chest and throat and bit the heel of his palm. He buried a hand in his own hair to pull it from his face as he filled the cabin with breathless, keening sounds that broke each time Saurfang drove up into him.

He wanted this, and he wanted what he knew would come later. The softest touch from hands that could kill so easily. A tenderness that belied everything he had ever come to expect of his enemy. He wanted to fall asleep curled against the warmth of a welcoming body. And he did not want it only for one last, wistful night.

Saurfang’s hand came up to take Anduin’s hair in his fist, and he pulled him down until they were nearly face to face. It slowed his thrusts, changed the angle, but Anduin could not complain. He bent the short distance to Saurfang’s face and pressed his lips to the orc’s, giving him what could pass for a kiss between such vastly different beings. And as he did, to his great surprise and even greater joy, Saurfang kissed him back.

 

* * *

 

  
Genn was no fool. He thought sometimes Anduin liked to think him one, as most of the young were prone to think of those older than they, but he had been a young man himself, once. And now he had extremely keen hearing, to boot.

He tuned out the sounds from within the ship that, quite frankly, made him rather uncomfortable. Instead, he focused on the lively song coming from the sailors performing their own entertainment on the other side of the ship. As he approached the guards by the galley door, Genn realized with some chagrin that they could not do the same. They did not seem to need especially sensitive hearing to tell what was happening a dozen feet away, either.

“It’s a lovely night, isn’t it?” he asked, providing them with a merciful distraction. They nodded curtly, but did not look his way, remaining attentive at their posts. “A quiet night,” he continued, and now his tone took on meaning that he hoped they would be wise enough to heed. “The sort where one wouldn’t hear anything interesting to speak of.”

They did look at him then, and Genn saw that they understood just fine.

 

* * *

 

Saurfang woke first. The light outside was gray, and smothered in a thick fog. There was no telling how early it might be, or how late.

Beside him Anduin lay with his back shoved up against Saurfang’s side, his arms folded with his fingers tucked under his own chin. He had kicked off the blanket in the night, but if he’d thrashed at all as he had for so many nights prior, Saurfang had been too tired to note it. Even the ship’s bells, which had undoubtedly rung at least once already, had not been able to wake him. Very little sound came from outside the cabin, but that did not mean the crew and those who remained aboard from the company of 7th Legion soldiers were not already awake and moving.

He cast his gaze about the cabin, looking first upon Anduin’s helm, standing sentinel over the room. He turned and saw the rest of the armor on its wooden stand. His own clothing was somewhere on the floor, and his armor—what he had removed the night before—was piled haphazardly upon a wooden trunk in the corner.

Moving slowly so that he did not wake Anduin, he got up from the bed and began to gather his clothing. When he had dressed and donned his tabard, he began the more tedious task of securing the leather harness that would hold his armor, and wrapping the accompanying straps around his wrists and forearms. He was about to secure the worn metal bracers in place when his eyes fell upon the tie that Anduin had pulled from his hair the night before. Saurfang crossed the room and plucked it from the table, feeling the soft grain of the leather between his fingertips. He held it up to his face and breathed deeply. It smelled like Anduin; bright and vital.

He quickly wound it around his wrist and secured it with a knot. Years of war and the threat of battle had taught him to pull his armor on with a haste most might have believed unthinkable, but it was merely second nature to him now. When he was finished the only item that remained was his great axe. He gave it a long, considering look, and then left it where it was. Sylvanas would only hang it alongside his armor as a part of her trophy. It was a good weapon, and it deserved to see battle again. He hoped perhaps Anduin would gift it to someone who might use it well.

His assumption had been right, at least where the ship’s crew were concerned. Despite the silence in the king’s cabin, all hands appeared hard at work, no doubt preparing the ship to sail should the need suddenly arise. He was pleased to see that no one trusted Sylvanas’ intentions more than they should. It was just as likely she would set her guns upon the _Valor’s Edge_ once the exchange had been made.

Greymane found him before he had made it ten steps onto the deck. He slipped between the bodies hurriedly moving about the ship at seemingly reckless speeds. It was all a dizzying dance, and one that Saurfang would just as happily not bother himself with. Sailing had never been of much interest to him. He felt much better with both feet upon solid ground.

“I trust you slept well,” Greymane said. It wasn’t a question, and there was a strange note to it that Saurfang could not immediately identify. He decided to ignore it.

“Well enough,” he said. “What time?”

The old wolf hesitated. He kept his expression carefully neutral. “We’ll go ashore once the king is ready. It’s nearly midday.”

 _Midday?_ They had slept— Saurfang shook his head and chuckled. Well, it could not be dismissed as a callous sendoff, at least.

“Are you certain?” Greymane did not elaborate upon the question, but he did not need to.

“I am.”

A moment later Anduin appeared on the deck, wearing nothing more than trousers and a shirt, the laces open in the front. His feet were bare. He looked as though he had rushed from the room upon waking, and as he observed the expression of panic that subsided only when Anduin laid eyes upon him, Saurfang realized he had. He nodded once after catching Saurfang’s eye, then stepped back inside the ship.

Saurfang excused himself from Greymane’s company and went to follow. He wondered if Anduin would need help with his armor again.

 

* * *

 

The exchange—the _prisoner_ exchange—was to be held on the northwest shore of Theramore Isle. The stone bridge that connected the island to the mainland of Dustwallow Marsh was still intact and safe to cross on foot, and so it had been determined that Saurfang would be handed over there. That way, the Horde observers could be certain nothing _underhanded_ was taking place. Apart from the whole sordid matter, at least. Genn scoffed at the thought of this supposed Horde integrity.

They arrived to find the Horde caravan was already there. No doubt Sylvanas had planned for its presence from the very moment she received word that Anduin had accepted her ludicrous invitation. Genn could not help but sneer at the host of Forsaken riders, dark rangers, and even orcs, tauren, trolls, and goblins who served as the escort for what was, quite literally, Saurfang’s cage. The wagon had been outfitted with bars, thick enough to contain a worgen, certainly, no doubt strong enough to hold an orc.

They were all awaiting the warchief’s arrival. Genn was convinced she had purposely delayed for no other reason than to draw out the proceedings, and twist the knife a little deeper. As he waited, consciously aware that his teeth were grinding and his jaw beginning to ache, Genn noted with surprise something he had not realized earlier, aboard the ship. Saurfang was wearing the tabard Genn had given to him. The bright blue and gold contrasted sharply with the hard-worn metal of his armor, painted the color of dried blood across its surface. Genn did a poor job of hiding his smile when he thought of what message the orc’s choice of attire would send to the Banshee Queen and her ilk.

Beside Saurfang stood Anduin, and his body language might have been unreadable to others, but Genn knew him too well to miss the subtle signs of his agitation. He was not, per Sylvanas’ blasted terms, wearing Shalamayne. In fact, none of the Alliance party were armed—save Genn himself. He _was_ a weapon, and one well accustomed to spilling Horde blood.

Finally, after what felt like an hour had passed, a rowboat appeared from the fog. In its prow stood the warchief herself. Smug could not adequately describe the smirk that twisted her cold features. She leapt from the small boat and landed upon the shore, taking her place at the head of the Horde already gathered. Blightcaller joined her in his usual silent and obsequious manner. Perhaps anticipating Genn’s presence, he was armed. Only a simple longbow, but more than deadly enough in the hands of a skilled archer. Genn found himself wondering just what other _terms_ Sylvanas had demanded of Anduin. With his compliance bought by return of the kaldorei lands, she could have asked for anything. She nearly had.

Just as Genn had expected, Sylvanas’ red eyes immediately trained on Saurfang’s front, and a sneer curled her lips as she beheld the Alliance colors there. Saurfang’s defiance had quite possibly earned him a great deal of torment before his death, but Genn did not think he would care much.

“Have you said your tearful goodbyes?” Sylvanas asked, her sing-song words mocking and pitiless. She smiled. “Look well, Saurfang. Your memories will have to sustain you to the gallows.”

Saurfang growled, and Anduin almost reached out to lay a hand on his arm. He pulled back at the last second. His movements were stiff, and Genn thought he saw color rise in the boy’s cheeks.

A soldier appeared bearing a set of manacles. Too large for a human’s wrists, they had undoubtedly been meant for one as large as an orc or a tauren, and Genn did not doubt that they had been supplied courtesy of the Horde. Sylvanas looked on, silent as the grave in which she belonged, as the soldier opened the heavy iron locks and raised them to Saurfang’s outstretched wrists.

“Stop,” she commanded. Her gaze shot to Anduin. “This is not what we agreed upon, _Highness_.”

Anduin seemed to hesitate, and then, to Genn’s horror, he reached out to take the manacles from the soldier. They dragged upon his arms, and it seemed as though it took every ounce of his strength to close them about Saurfang’s wrists. When the latches were shut he turned the key in each, and then handed it to a waiting Forsaken footsoldier who had come to collect it.

She had made Anduin chain Saurfang himself. Genn could scarcely breathe for his fury. Was there no end to her cruelty? She was not merely watching now, but focused intently upon the scene as Anduin guided Saurfang across the bridge and over to his Horde captors. She was delighted by the suffering before her, _reveling in it_.

It took every bit of will in Genn’s being to keep from tearing through his clothes and transforming so that he might rip out her throat with his own teeth.

“One last goodbye,” Sylvanas said, only loud enough for Anduin and Saurfang—and Genn, with his greater senses—to hear.

In truth, Genn had not expected either Saurfang or Anduin to rise to her challenge, but he watched, stunned as any gathered save perhaps Sylvanas herself. Even Blightcaller’s eyes widened as Saurfang, his focus on Anduin alone, turned and gently pressed his forehead to the king’s. In turn, Anduin placed a hand upon the side of Saurfang’s face and closed his eyes. For a moment they were all that existed to one another, and Genn realized with a gut wrenching twist of understanding that he had indeed been right; Saurfang loved Anduin. He loved him very much, it seemed. …And Anduin loved him back.

“How touching.” Sylvanas made a gesture, and the tableau shattered forever. A brutish tauren guard wrenched Saurfang by his chains and pulled him toward the wagon and its steel bars. Sylvanas and her fawning minion watched as he climbed up into the cage, and then smiled when the door slammed shut, and the lock turned. An additional chain was wrapped around the bars to ensure that no one would open it again until the caravan arrived in Orgrimmar, and a hides were draped over the sides. It seemed Saurfang was not even permitted a final view of the open skies before his execution.

Sylvanas returned to the rowboat that waited to ferry her back to the _Banshee’s Wail_. Anduin had informed him only that morning that a two-part agreement had been struck to ensure the safety of all Horde and Alliance present for the negotiations. The first part was that neither ship would set sail until night, giving the caravan time to reach Durotar, at least. The second was that neither ship would pull anchor without its respective leader present. That meant Sylvanas could not accompany the caravan north herself, of course, but Genn was surprised to find that Blightcaller remained behind as well.

While both halves of the Horde party had already withdrawn, the Alliance remained. They would not leave until the king signaled his desire to depart, and Anduin had not moved, nor did it seem he wished to. His eyes were fixed upon the wagon as it rolled into the marsh, slowly disappearing amongst the hummocks and stunted trees, all draped in hanging moss.

Genn reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. Anduin started, his eyes going wide. “Genn?”

“It’s time to go.”

Anduin turned back, no doubt searching the swamp for signs of the caravan, but it could no longer be seen. He nodded slowly. “Yes,” he said. His voice sounded hollow. Defeated. “Home.”

 

* * *

 

Saurfang had thought the hides covering his cage were meant to prevent him from looking out upon anything he might find pleasing during his journey to Orgrimmar. He quickly discovered, as the wagon rolled through the Barrens, that it served another purpose; the air was sweltering inside the small, ambling prison. What little did manage to make it between the heavy hides was thick with dust, and he coughed and sputtered each time it filled his lungs.

The journey was slow, he was certain intentionally so. Saurfang was beginning to regret his insistence upon wearing his armor. He could die just as easily without heavy plate forcing him to crouch on his knees in a too-small cage.

All around him Sylvanas’ chosen carried on, talking amongst themselves, complaining about their own issues with the seemingly interminable journey, and even making wagers regarding his execution—that was mainly the goblins. Saurfang was admittedly surprised to find that Sylvanas had allowed any but Forsaken to ferry him back to what she called justice. He could not imagine she trusted anyone else with the task, and certainly not orcs. The tauren would obey so long as Baine Bloodhoof did, but even they were likely too softhearted for her needs. Or so he’d thought. The tauren that had dragged him to the wagon certainly hadn’t taken any great pains to exercise his people’s gentler nature.

In the end, Saurfang supposed he’d earned such treatment many times over. He had betrayed the Horde, taken up arms against them, if not in person, then certainly in spirit. Perhaps even the proud and thoughtful Baine had finally turned his back on his one-time ally. It was difficult to accept, but there was no changing it now. He very much doubted that Sylvanas would allow him last words before what would certainly be his public execution. Provided he could speak by then. A healthy prisoner could be relieved of a great deal of himself before succumbing to his injuries. The Forsaken almost certainly knew exactly how much that was.

His only indication that time had passed at all during their journey was the fading light, glimpsed through the hides as they rolled up the long road. Dusk brought blessedly cooler temperatures, and even a slight reprieve from the choking dust, but his joints still ached from the cramped cage, and his temples throbbed from so long spent roasting in the scorching sun. By the time they had reached the Southfury River, the smell of its waters crisp and unmistakable, the light outside had disappeared completely. Saurfang was left in total darkness.

The caravan came to a stop, and the wagon lurched before its momentum halted. Outside the hides he could hear muffled conversation, but nothing to indicate why they had stopped, or for how long. The sound of hooves and paws and claws shifting nervously came to him through the small gaps between the hides as mounts awaited their riders’ commands.

All at once there was a shout, and then a scream, and the caravan erupted in chaos around him. An arrow pierced the hide, but it was too thick for more than the steel head to penetrate. Saurfang felt his blood rise and the desire to fight gripped him like a fever. He was no better than an animal, trapped as he was. The sounds of battle were all around him, and he could not tell who died, if they were friend or foe, or whether any might strike at him. Belatedly he realized they could all be his enemies, fighting for the honor of taking his head. He heard a wet sound, like a body torn where it should not be, and turned toward it. Something fell against the outside of the cage. In his eagerness Saurfang reached for the bars, only to jump back, startled at the shock that gripped his arm and made his teeth clench.

The attack was over quickly, but there was no telling who had won. Before he had entered the cage Saurfang had counted two dozen riders in his escort, not counting the two atop the wagon. From the moment the violence had begun there had been plenty of time for a group of skilled fighters to subdue or slaughter each and every one. And unless the enemy had come in greater numbers, the same was true in reverse. Once more he found himself in the dark, awaiting his fate.

He heard the sound of feet upon the ground; a rider dismounting. Swift footsteps carried the rider to his cage, and then the nearest hide was wrenched away. Cool air rushed in, and Saurfang took his first deep, dust-free breath in hours, even as he looked upon the face of his savior.

“Been a while,” Zekhan said. The young troll was grinning around his tusks. “No need to stand just for me.”

Saurfang couldn’t help but smile at the blue fool. He reached for the bars, but stopped short of grasping them again.

“They be fine to touch, just a bit of a zap to keep the Forsaken from trying to take you out before we could get to you.”

“And who is we?” Saurfang asked. He could see nothing but Zekhan and his mount—a raptor the color of the sky—from within his cage. Zekhan held a torch, but it only illuminated the immediate area, leaving the rest cloaked in darkness.

Zekhan stepped back and held the torch aloft. “We… be us.”

The light fell upon a host of rescuers, all of them Horde. There were trolls, tauren, and even orcs. A lone goblin stood among them. Two were blood elves, and he could see now that the glow of their eyes was dimmed by their coverings. In the back Saurfang thought he even saw a pandaren. One—the tauren who had so roughly handled him earlier—inclined his head respectfully.

“How?” he asked.

“A… mutual acquaintance… caught word you were bein’ brought to Orgrimmar to be ‘punished.’ We arranged a little stop along the way, courtesy of my friend here.” He indicated the tauren. “Our acquaintance sends his regards, and apologizes for not acting sooner, but he says he’s glad you had the help of friends when you needed it most. He knows how valuable that can be.”

Baine.

The young tauren leader continued to impress him. It was no wonder even Anduin counted the high chieftain among his friends. For a moment Saurfang’s heart swelled with pride for the Horde he so loved, and he could not suppress his grateful smile. Even as Zekhan and two others broke the chain that bound the door to his cage and forced the lock, his mind was flooded with possibilities. A coup. A rebellion from within. Sylvanas could be overthrown, and the Horde could be restored to what it had been—what it _should_ be. But even more inspiring was the knowledge that there were others who understood what he did, and they were willing to act on it.

But just as Saurfang was about to thank Zekhan and the others, and finally step out of his cramped cage, he realized what an utter fool he was. He couldn’t _go_. It was a betrayal of not just his principles, but those who had trusted him. He had to stay, remain where he was, bound as he was, and face his fate. His life had been traded for a purpose, and he was honor-bound to see it through to the end. He sat back upon the rough floor of the wagon. “I can’t,” he said.

Zekhan looked at him like he had lost his mind, and perhaps he was right. “Can’t what? Get out? You got in there—”

“No. I can’t go with you.”

Now the others had gathered closer as well. Some appeared concerned, while others were clearly unhappy with his refusal to escape. Zekhan seemed torn between the two himself. “Why not?” he asked, his voice rising with the question.

Saurfang growled. He wanted to hurl his fists at the bars in frustration. Only for himself, for his ridiculous thoughts of reclaiming the Horde, of toppling Sylvanas from her throne, and even returning to Stormwind—to Anduin. “I made a promise. Traded my life for—” He paused. He could not tell a group of Horde that he had given his life to Sylvanas to reclaim land for the night elves. If they weren’t ready to turn on him for rejecting their help, they would certainly turn on him for _that_. “For something too valuable to risk. I must keep my word.” He had to die. It was the only way.

Zekhan shifted his weight and glanced back over his shoulder at the others. He lowered his voice until only Saurfang could hear him, and said, “It’s all a lie.”

Saurfang froze. “What do you mean? _What_ is a lie?”

“Darkshore, the withdrawal, Sylvanas be setting up the Alliance. She’s got no plans to hand it over. Her army’s gonna crush the Alliance when they arrive to take it back.”

It was exactly the sort of thing Sylvanas would do, but to break an agreement struck in good faith, and to do it so brazenly… “Who else knows about this?” Saurfang asked. His thoughts were once more racing, but no longer with plans of deposing Sylvanas. He had to prevent an ambush that could very well turn the tide of the war in the Banshee Queen’s favor.

Zekhan leaned a little closer. “You and me, and our… acquaintance.”

Clearly Baine was reluctant to openly oppose Sylvanas, and that was fine. Even sensible. He did not need to show his hand, not yet. And as long as he was safely resisting her rule from the shadows, and the tauren people were safe, he was not the priority, either. “I have to get word to the Alliance.”

“You can’t. Sylvanas knew we might get you before you got to Orgrimmar. She got her own forces in Dustwallow waiting to attack theirs if anything goes wrong.” Zekhan indicated the waiting mounts, and empty saddles atop them. “We’re gonna send the wagon ahead. Make it look like you’re still inside. By the time they realize you escaped, the Alliance king and his people be long gone.”

Saurfang looked at those gathered around the wagon, and for the first time he realized what a risk they were taking simply by standing there. “How will you explain my disappearance?” he asked. How would they keep from being executed by Sylvanas themselves?

Zekhan opened his hand, and a small ball of fire sparked within his palm before sputtering out again. “Don’t worry ‘bout that,” he said, grinning again. “It’s gonna look like you’re a lot more clever than she gave you credit for.”

“My friend,” Saurfang said, clapping the troll on the shoulder, “I am glad we fight on the same side.”

His praise earned him an affectionate thump on the arm in return, and then Zekhan said, “Right, you gotta go. It don’t matter where, but you need to hurry.” He stopped. “And wherever it is, I think you’re gonna want to lay low for a while. Sylvanas’ll be on a warpath once she finds you’re gone.”

Saurfang jumped down from the wagon, cursing under his breath as he landed. It wasn’t so simple. He could do as Zekhan suggested, and “lay low,” but he could not allow the banshee’s ambush to succeed. “I still need to warn the Alliance,” he said. “Their forces will be slaughtered if I don’t.” Who knew the cost even beyond the disadvantage to the Alliance itself. If Anduin chose to accompany the fleet…

“No time!” Zekhan insisted. He was pulling at Saurfang now, urging him toward one of the riderless mounts. “They’ll know something’s happened if we take too long. They be waiting in Orgrimmar, expecting your arrival.”

That meant there was only one other option. “You have to do it.”

 

* * *

 

_“You’re my friend, but I can’t help you with an Alliance bullet in my skull!”_

Zekhan, mounted atop his raptor, raced south through the Barrens in the direction of Dustwallow Marsh. Saurfang hadn’t exactly been keen on taking no for an answer, and before he would save his own life, he had insisted on a promise. Zekhan knew that the orc wouldn’t have asked for something so risky if it wasn’t important to him, and so he’d agreed—eventually. The relief he’d seen on Saurfang’s face as he climbed into the saddle and rode off was something Zekhan was sure he’d never forget. Not for the first time, he wondered if the rumors about Saurfang and the human king might be true after all…

He carried no written note for the Alliance, but only a short, and, at least in Zekhan’s opinion, rather cryptic message. Four words that Saurfang claimed would prove Zekhan was coming to them with good intentions.

_The dog was right._

After that, if the Alliance king was willing to listen, Zekhan would tell him what he knew of the ambush in Darkshore. Saurfang had insisted that the Alliance would let him through, and Zekhan had never known the orc to steer him wrong—except, maybe, this time. He still wasn’t certain what chance he had of convincing armed human soldiers that he meant them no harm. All he had was faith in his friend not to get him killed.

His raptor rounded one of the hills that abruptly jutted from the otherwise flat plain of the Barrens, and Zekhan drew the reins up sharply. He was almost thrown from the beast’s back when its claws dug deeply into the dry earth. The raptor snapped furiously and whipped its tail in agitation.

A dozen or more—definitely more—Forsaken riders waited around the bend, all armed, all armored. They had come to kill something, that much was certain. He counted at least four dark rangers, but he was sure more were waiting in the shadows where he could not see. They always were.

“Well, what have we here?” he heard a voice ask. Zekhan did not need to see the speaker to recognize the unliving, unnatural sound, or its owner: _Blightcaller_. The Banshee Queen’s right hand.

A chill swept over him, and he gathered the reins in his hands, wondering just how far he’d get if he tried to run. “Just… out for a ride,” he lied. He prayed they would believe him, but even as he did, he knew the favor he asked was far greater than the loa would provide. Even they did not look kindly upon fools.

“And where were you headed on this _ride?_ ” Blightcaller asked curiously. The riders parted to allow him through, the bones of their skeletal mounts scraping and clicking as they shifted. The sound was vile, and Zekhan couldn’t help a shudder. “Perhaps to visit some friends of yours?”

He seized on the opportunity. “Yeah, friends!” he said. “Over in—out in—in Mulgore.”

“Mulgore, hm? You’re a little lost if you’re headed to Mulgore.” Blightcaller swiveled to look in the direction they both knew the tauren lands lay, to the northeast of where they were presently standing. “A little too far _south_ , in fact.”

A heavy lump had formed in his throat. Zekhan swallowed. “I never been very good at navigating the dark.”

“No?” Blightcaller smiled. “Well, it’s a good thing we’re here to guide you home, isn’t it.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally Consort was meant to be two stories, and the first would have ended with what is now chapter 3. Imagine how mean that would have been. But I am a nice writer. ...Keep that in mind over the next few chapters.

“High Chieftain, I am pleased by your swift reply to my summons.”

Baine crossed the floor of Grommash Hold to stand before Sylvanas. He offered his respects, and awaited what news she had deemed so urgent that he was compelled to rush from Thunder Bluff.

The warchief reclined upon the throne that had been rebuilt by Garrosh Hellscream, and certainly with his form and comfort in mind. It dwarfed her slender body, made even smaller by the touch of undeath. As Baine waited she sat forward in the massive seat, poised upon the very edge. She had the look of vicious excitement about her that was so often difficult to separate from fury. “Varok Saurfang is alive,” she said, whispering the words for his ears alone. When Baine did not immediately react—not outwardly, at least—she sat back again. Her mask of cool contemplation returned. “Our former-ally-turned-traitor has been sighted in Darkshore, hiding amongst the _night elves_.” Now her ruby eyes took on a dangerous gleam, and she smiled. “Druids, I’m told.”

He did not immediately respond. He wasn’t certain he could. In his heart Baine knew Saurfang was no traitor. What Sylvanas had done to the World Tree was… There were no words for it. He had witnessed atrocities on a scale almost unimaginable during Hellscream’s reign, but at least the mad orc had been thinking somewhat tactically while he occupied the seat Sylvanas now held by the throat. She had ordered Teldrassil burned for _no reason_. Nothing but her own lust for suffering and destruction. And her actions at Lordaeron were nothing short of intolerable. Her assurance that Saurfang had chosen to face the Alliance forces alone had not sat well with Baine, but her thinly veiled threats had compelled his silence, and, at least for a time, his grudging loyalty.

When Baine had eventually learned that Saurfang was instead working _with_ the Alliance, using his knowledge of the Horde’s resources and tactics to aid its enemies, he had been furious. For a time he had thought to turn his back on the high overlord, regardless of how highly Baine himself regarded Anduin Wrynn. But while Sylvanas had whispered poison in one ear, Baine’s own informants had spoken truth in the other; Saurfang was, and likely would forever be, true to the Horde. It seemed that what he could not accomplish from within he had instead sought to change from without. Ancestors knew that Baine himself had forged questionable ties when circumstances compelled him to do so. He could hardly fault Saurfang for doing the same when he’d been pushed to it.

And so Baine had gathered his own allies. Individuals he could trust, who shared his and Saurfang’s reservations about the methods employed by their new warchief. One such person was Zekhan, a young Darkspear who had come to Baine not long after Saurfang’s capture by the Alliance, seeking a way to rescue the high overlord. While his determination had been admirable, Baine had nevertheless refused. Infiltrating Stormwind, especially Stormwind’s infamous Stockade, was next to impossible.

Until Sylvanas had done it, and left Saurfang to rot in his cell anyway.

After that, Baine had watched, and listened, and waited for his opportunity to act on what he now believed to be right. To stop Sylvanas before she unleashed her Blight upon another city. Before she set her eyes on Hyjal, or Thunder Bluff. Baine shuddered to the tip of his tail at the thought of what horrors the Banshee Queen might inflict on his people if she’d known what he intended to do. But the dark path she had set the Horde upon was no place for the tauren. It was no place for any, save perhaps the Forsaken. When he had learned of her plan to betray a bargain struck in good faith, one that had given her the life of Saurfang himself, he knew he could sit idle no longer. The Alliance ships dispatched to Darkshore would be carrying hundreds of human soldiers, and he could not bear the thought of what that meant—not only for those men and women, but for the Horde. For as the number of Forsaken rose, so too would the power Sylvanas held over the other races, and she did not look upon them with nearly so much favor.

He raised his head, pretending to give the matter some thought. So, Saurfang was alive after all. Word had been that he was slain in an escape attempt, and Baine had almost believed it. Especially when Zekhan and the others had not returned from their mission to free him. Baine had been certain his own arrest was imminent when the news reached him that the plan had failed, but nothing had ever come of it. Those carefully selected allies had simply vanished in one night, along with Saurfang himself, and for weeks Sylvanas had kept silent on the matter. It had been his hope that by freeing Saurfang the orc might bring word to the Alliance of Sylvanas’ treachery before it was too late. It was only when he’d learned that the ambush had been successful, and every single Alliance soldier sent to Darkshore had been slain, that he finally accepted that the rumors must have been true.

But it seemed the great warrior had not earned his towering reputation for nothing, though Baine feared even his prodigious skill might not be enough to save him this time. If Saurfang was indeed alive, then he was among those now trapped in Darkshore. The Alliance’s strength had been significantly weakened by the loss of so many ships and soldiers. With additional Horde reinforcements sent to bolster the numbers already occupying the former night elf lands, it was only a matter of time before Sylvanas turned the war in her favor completely. After what she had done already, Baine did not have it in him to believe that she would stop with the Alliance.

“Night elves? Druids?” Baine snorted. “That does not sound like Varok Saurfang.” That, at least, was true.

“But you acknowledge that he is a traitor, of course.”

It was meant to bait him, but Baine would not give her the satisfaction. He inclined his head. “If Saurfang is in league with the Alliance, then he has indeed betrayed you, Warchief,” he said carefully.

Sylvanas laughed. It should have been a musical sound, a pleasant sound, but there was no joy in it. She could not feel the emotion of true happiness, he was sure of that much. “In league?” she repeated. “In _bed_ , High Chieftain.”

Baine’s ears went flat. He had heard the rumors, of course, everyone had. For a time after reports of the confrontation in Darkshore had surfaced there had been little else anyone would talk about. Baine himself had dismissed it as little better than slander. But if Sylvanas was to be believed, Saurfang had not merely found allies in Stormwind, but a companion. Anduin Wrynn, no less. It was… difficult to imagine how that had even come to be.

“Oh, yes,” Sylvanas continued. Her smile growing wide. “Quite the lovely picture they made in Theramore. I half expected the boy king to start openly weeping.” She all but spat the last word, as though the mere notion of it offended her.

Baine could only imagine the sort of anguish Sylvanas had caused that day. That she seemed to bask in misery was expected. But his surprise at the apparently open affection Sylvanas claimed to have witnessed, and subsequently destroyed, swiftly turned to anger. He felt his temper rising like bile in his throat, and fought to control himself. It would serve no good to confront her in her own element, such as it was. A thought occurred to him. “Does the Alliance know Saurfang lives?”

That seemed to have been the wrong question. Her eyes narrowed. “No. And it will remain that way.”

Baine couldn’t help his surprised snort. “But why?” he asked.

“Because the little lion still has _teeth_. And while he does, he is a danger to me, and to my people—the Horde,” she added with a brush of her hand, almost as an afterthought. “He is powerful despite his youth. You were present at Lordaeron, you saw what I saw.”

“Of course, but—”

“The Light requires discipline, focus, and above all a steady mind to wield to such great effect.”

Was Sylvanas suggesting…? She could not possibly be serious. The very notion was appalling. “A _steady mind?_ You wish to purposely drive him to despair? To push him—?”

Sylvanas leapt up from her seat, her hands curled into quivering fists. “Do not mistake me, Baine.” Her eyes flared a fiery red beneath the shroud of her hood as she descended from the warchief’s throne. There was a darkness about her that had nothing to do with the cold touch of undeath. “I have no interest in his pathetic morale,” she sneered. “Nor do I wish to simply  _push_ him.” The darkness grew, until Baine realized it was no longer just something he could sense, but something he could  _see_. He took a step back without meaning to, and Sylvanas’ words seemed to wrap around him like her closed fists. “No,” she said, the words vibrating with malice, “I intend to _break_ him.”

 

   
Baine paced the length of the lodge, his thoughts like billowing storm clouds. Despite his efforts to remain calm, his tail whipped behind him as he walked, and more than once it had knocked into something as he passed. He had thought to let his troubled steps carry him out to the rest of the rise, where he might consider his next actions in the warm light of day. For many reasons that was not a good idea, however. He was too angry, too disturbed by what he had learned of Sylvanas’ plans.

On the battlefield his own warriors used drums to invoke the blessings of their ancestors, to guide and coordinate their movements, and to inspire courage and strength. Soldiers of the Horde let loose a furious war cry, and the orcs shouted cheers of _victory or death_ in their native tongue. War paint frightened and confused the enemy. Heads on pikes, while admittedly grotesque to Baine, served to warn others of their fate. Games of intimidation and posturing were as much a part of war as blood and pain, but what Sylvanas wished to do was not merely a tactic to dishearten, discourage, or even frighten her enemy. It was an attack on Anduin Wrynn’s mind, and it was _wrong_.

The banshee had struck a terrible blow against the young king with the supposed execution of Varok Saurfang. Sylvanas had not realized her mistake when she shared news of the high overlord’s current whereabouts with Baine, but he would put the information to good use. If nothing else, he could lend his help to a friend who had once helped him. Perhaps in doing so the Alliance might yet recover from the blow struck against them in Darkshore.

He ceased his pacing, and sought parchment and a quill. The message he scrawled was brief and to the point:

_Darkshore. Saurfang lives._

Baine would not make the mistake of using one of his own to deliver the message. Not for lack of faith or a question of their loyalty, but because he knew it was what Sylvanas would expect of him. No doubt she had her spies in place to monitor his every move. It was wiser to use more overt methods to avoid added suspicion. Baine would use the banshee’s own intelligence against her, right under her very nose.

He stepped out into the light and looked over the warriors standing watch at the foot of the steps. “Inform the archdruid I wish to speak with him,” he instructed. One of the two, a young bull, received the order dashed off to do as his high chieftain had commanded.

Baine patiently awaited his adviser, his friend, and one of the few left in the Horde he knew he could trust with his life. It was not long before Hamuul Runetotem appeared, his brow creased with worry. Baine invited him into the lodge, where he swiftly set about explaining his concerns, as well as the information Sylvanas had shared with him regarding not just Saurfang, but Anduin Wrynn as well.

“Such contemptible scheming,” Hamuul snorted. “But you say she has received word that Saurfang has taken up with druids?”

“Those were her words.”

Hamuul shook his great head, unsettling his mane. “It must be Tyrande Whisperwind’s people. No one else has been able to penetrate the borders of Darkshore since the warchief sent her reinforcements. Not even members of the Cenarion Circle.”

“As much as it pains me, I cannot help those trapped in Darkshore. Not even Varok Saurfang. But I can prevent further damage by Sylvanas’ hand. I need your help, my friend.”

Now Hamuul seemed wary. Baine suspected he had already guessed what Baine wished to ask of him. “I see,” he said.

“I cannot undo this harm she has caused. Not myself, not directly. But you are an archdruid of the Cenarion Circle. If you were to travel to Moonglade—”

Hamuul held up a hand, and Baine fell silent. High chieftain or no, he had great respect for his longtime friend and adviser. A man who had been held in the highest esteem by his father before him. “Say no more,” Hamuul said, his voice pitched low. “I will do what you ask.”

Gratitude flooded Baine. He smiled and inclined his head respectfully. The archdruid took the note that Baine had sealed himself, carefully tucking it into a pouch of herbs that he kept on his belt.

They parted ways, and Baine returned to his pacing. No longer to soothe his troubled thoughts, but to reflect now on his own hand in what the Horde had become. He had done what he could, and his heart was unburdened by the choice. His message would be delivered to Moonglade, to the night elf druids who could travel freely within the Alliance territories. It would reach the king, and perhaps, if the Earthmother allowed it, one who had been so kind to him in the past, so forthright and just, might be spared the cruelty Sylvanas intended for him.

 

* * *

 

 

Saurfang stood in an open glade, hands empty, his back to the unnatural moon that loomed ominously over the land of Darkshore. He listened, but could hear only the faint cries of creatures too accustomed to the night to bear the perpetual shadows any mind. For some time he was certain that he was alone.

Then there came a sound; movement in the brush, and a whisper of metal as it was pulled from its sheath. Behind him heavy footsteps fell rapidly upon the earth, and the air whispered movement as someone advanced on his position. Saurfang twisted clear of the blade that cut to the ground where he had been standing. He regained his footing almost immediately, and came about to knock the wind and the weapon from the hand of his enemy. From the stunned expression on the face of his attacker it was clear that the young orc knew he had lost.

It might have been a true victory. It should have been. Saurfang could have killed him easily, broken his neck, and that would have been the end of it. But others burst forth from the trees around them, and suddenly Saurfang found himself facing not one wheezing, unarmed enemy, but a half dozen.

“Nowhere else to run, High Overlord,” a male blood elf sneered. His robes marked him a mage, and the mist that cloaked his hands indicated ice as his preferred school of magic. Indeed, running was not an option.

“Do you still recognize the Horde you serve?” Saurfang asked. He looked at those around him—the blood elf, the orc on the ground, and the others: troll, tauren, and goblin. “Do you think the Banshee Queen would hesitate to let you die if it served her designs?”

They did not waver. Gazes hardened, fingers tightened around blades and bows. “Bold words from a king’s whore,” the elf sneered.

Saurfang was too stunned to respond. There had been a time no fool would have dared speak to him so disrespectfully. Not even his enemies. From the faces of those gathered beside their comrade he could see that they all held him in the same low esteem. Had the Horde truly changed so much?

Two things happened then: the Horde party advanced, and a rain of silvery arrows sliced through the darkness in a whistling chorus. It was over almost the moment it began. Saurfang frowned. He looked upon the bodies of those who had once been his allies, his brothers and sisters, and could not summon the will to feel what he knew he should.

Leaves rustled in one of the closest trees, and then booted feet hit the ground with a deceptively heavy sound. He turned to the blue-haired elf who had “saved” his life. “Was that your arrow I felt fly past my ear?” he asked her. It was rhetorical; if he did not distract himself from the sight of the dead he thought he might do something foolish himself.

“Of course not, I promised I would stop doing that,” Miren Songleaf said with a carefully neutral expression that told him everything her answer did not. “Are you satisfied with what we’ve done here?” she went on to ask. It was the same question she asked every time they dispatched another group of Horde. Those who were not willing, or able, to look past their blind loyalty to the Banshee Queen.

He only replied, “They made their choice.”

More elves appeared then, taking form from the shadows and swinging down out of their own hiding places among the branches. One, the smallest of them, had been concealed nearby in the hollow of a long-dead tree. She brandished the daggers she had only recently appropriated from an unfortunate assassin—sent courtesy of the warchief—tipping them against her temple in a mock salute.

“Nieme, those are coated in poison, do keep them away from your skin,” Songleaf reminded the girl.

Saurfang watched as the others began scavenging what supplies they could from the corpses. It was ugly business, but more so than ever it was necessary for their survival. Much like the ambush itself. He did not truly participate in either, if he could help it. His part in the farce began and ended with his mere presence, and whatever attempt he could make to sway his former allies from their path. He was no more or less than bait, though even that rankled him for a number of reasons, not least of which was the risk to himself. “Fortunate these six did not waste the opportunity to gloat,” he said, the words laced with enough meaning for a peon to grasp.

“You’re too tempting to ignore,” Songleaf offered as both an explanation and an apology, which Saurfang had learned was her way. A wry smirk lit her face. “Too big, as well.”

“I’d feel better cutting down the banshee’s followers in open combat. I am a warrior, not a target dummy.”

“Yes, perhaps. But you’ve only been with us for a handful of weeks. We could not possibly teach you all we know of fighting in so short a time.”

Saurfang bristled at the presumption. “I have been _fighting_ since long before you were born!” he insisted.

She held his gaze. Around them the others had finished their work, and from the corner of his eye he caught several amused glances as they filtered back into the trees. Songleaf crossed her arms over her chest. “I am three hundred and fifteen years old, you know. I’d wager I’ve been fighting since before your _father’s father_ was born, Lord Saurfang.”

Saurfang very quickly busied himself with whatever task needed doing. He knew the kaldorei were long lived, though no longer truly immortal. It had simply slipped his mind—due in large part to Songleaf’s youthful appearance and constant optimism. _Night elves_. There really was an insufferable air of superiority about them.

He heard a snicker, and turned to find Nieme standing with a smile on her face. One that, not so long ago, he had seen covered in blood. “And how old are _you?_ ” he demanded.

 

   
They sat together around a small campfire later that evening. It was difficult to tell the time with no sun to mark the hours. Their lives were an endless cycle of sleeping, eating, killing, and moving on to safer sites. He’d lost his armor in one such flight, torn from sleep by the sound of horns that heralded the approach of far more enemies than their small band could hope to defeat. He had been faced with the choice of donning the worn and familiar plate, or assisting one of the night elves who had been injured in a previous skirmish. In the end it was no choice at all. Running infuriated him, and losing his armor was like salt in the wound, but he had come seeking shelter from their people. The injured night elf survived, and they had located a new camp the following morning.

From there they launched a new round of attacks on the Horde that seemed to flow endlessly from the camps around them. To Saurfang’s great dismay, the Banshee Queen’s ambush of the Alliance fleet had been successful, but she had not stopped there. New forces had been dispatched from Orgrimmar, more determined and better armed than even those Saurfang himself had commanded. They took no chances, and blockaded every possible route he or the remaining night elves might take from the region. He had only been in Darkshore for three days when he realized, along with the others, that he would not be leaving any time soon.

“Are you worried for the king?” Songleaf asked quietly. She held her meal in one hand—roasted nuts and what appeared to him to be no more than slightly long, fat leaves—and ate slowly with the other. “We searched the wreckage as thoroughly as we could, there was no sign of him among the dead.”

“They would not have left his body to rot with the others.” It was a surprise Sylvanas had left any corpses, in fact. They were far too valuable to waste, but perhaps she had feared the Alliance hadn’t trusted her to keep her end of the bargain, and split their forces. She should have known better. Fortunate for those souls aboard the ships that she had not.

Songleaf seemed to consider him for some time, and then she lowered her voice and asked, “Are you angry because you learned you are the youngest of us?”

Despite his sour mood, Saurfang couldn’t help but laugh. He shook his head. “No,” he admitted, “Although I find it strange.” He had not been the youngest in any group for some time. In fact, apart from Anduin and his ill-tempered wolf, he had not been a part of any sort of company since his last campaign with the Horde, either.

His own reminiscing tugged at the feelings he had struggled to bury since coming to Darkshore and locating Songleaf and her comrades. He couldn’t help but think of Stormwind, but not for the city itself. It was the life he had stumbled upon in the keep. The strange place he had found for himself in the most unlikely corner of Azeroth.

The urge to be open with the elf overwhelmed him suddenly, and before he knew what he was doing, before he could stop himself, he was speaking again. “I am… longing for something I cannot have,” he admitted. “A place I cannot go back to.” Not yet, at least. And perhaps not for some time. Each night he slept beneath a woven lean-to, surrounded by his former enemies, and longing for the day he could return to Stormwind. It was ridiculous.

His emotions made him soft, he decided, and that would not do. He could not fight and kill and fret over his wasted desires at the same time. “It isn’t important,” he muttered.

“On the contrary, I think it is very important.”

“He may be dead already.” Saurfang tried to banish the unbidden images of Anduin’s body, spitted upon a pike and adorning the gates of Orgrimmar. Or his cold, gray corpse kneeling before the banshee’s throne, reanimated by her val’kyr into unending servitude. The thought of what she might do to him, even in death, made his stomach turn, and he set his own meal of wild bird and fish on the broken log next to him.

Songleaf shook her head. “You must believe he isn’t.”

His temper snapped, and he rounded on her. “Why must I believe that? Because you and your people think hope is so crucial to victory? Did _hope_ douse the fires that burned your homes?” He knew he was crossing a line, lashing out because there was no better target for his frustration. It was not the first time. “You may have lived three hundred and fifteen years, Sentinel Songleaf, but that does not mean your wisdom is infallible. You do not know everything.”

He wanted her to be angry. He knew how to respond to anger—with more anger. Anduin’s gentleness had always been abiding and tolerant, but even he had pushed back when purposely provoked. Songleaf, perhaps guided by those three centuries of lived experiences he had dismissed, instead bent like a willow branch. His anger swept around her, and she dared to place a hand on his knee. “I know grief,” she said. “And I know helplessness.” When he turned sharply she did flinch, which was briefly satisfying, but her surprise softened again almost immediately. “Even _you_ cannot claim otherwise,” she said.

Over her shoulder hung the larger of the two moons, enormous and black. Beyond the branches of the trees that surrounded them, across the water, stood the burned husk of the World Tree. He knew that only a few short miles from where they sat at that very moment lay the ruins of the camp where her brother had died. He opened his mouth to speak, but Songleaf had returned to her meal. She ate another strange leaf, and did not look at him as she said, “I know you’re sorry.”

Saurfang stared at his hands for several minutes. Eventually he picked up his food and began to eat again. But not before placing a piece of his own meal in Songleaf’s open palm. “Nuts and leaves are not _food_ ,” he rumbled quietly.

 

* * *

 

 

The warchief’s command called him back to Orgrimmar for the second time in so many days, and Baine obeyed. This time he did not rush to answer the summons. He knew Sylvanas would expect his hesitation. After witnessing his aversion to her plan for the king of Stormwind, it would not surprise her to find him reluctant to further involve himself in her schemes. No, it was a swift return to her side that would alert her something was amiss. Sylvanas was no fool.

He found her standing at the doors of Grommash Hold, unconcerned with the stares and whispers of the citizens of the Horde as they passed. It was not often the warchief ventured out to stand among the rabble. Sylvanas was even less fond of the crowds than the late Vol’jin had been, and so her appearances were by nature less common, and therefore noteworthy. When Baine approached she cocked her head in a gesture that indicated he should follow. In silence, the two began a slow, seemingly aimless walk through the dark, dusty streets of Orgrimmar.

They had only just reached the top of the Drag when Sylvanas finally spoke. “Further word has come to me of our former ally’s activities,” she said, speaking quietly, as though she expected someone else might overhear.

Baine pretended to listen closely, but his mind was elsewhere, with Hamuul Runetotem, and his crucial message. Who would he take it to? Baine wondered. He hoped they would listen. The archdruid was wise and well respected, but war taxed reason.

Sylvanas shared the details of the latest intelligence, and Baine nodded along as needed. Soon they found themselves at the now-gated entrance to the Underhold, the once-mighty fortress of Garrosh Hellscream. It lay beneath the heart of Orgrimmar, and had at one time held the sinister heart of an Old God. Baine knew the halls held particular significance for himself and many members of the Horde. Likely no less for Sylvanas, whose people had suffered just as cruelly under Garrosh’s boot as any others.

Baine had hoped that the races of the Horde might learn to find more common ground with one another after the orc’s well-deserved death at Thrall’s hand. But in the end it seemed it was not to be. While the trolls, orcs, tauren, and even to an extent the blood elves had forged and reaffirmed their bonds, the goblins had remained interested only in their own ends. The Forsaken, as always, largely kept themselves apart. Sylvanas’ appointment as warchief following Vol’jin’s death did not change that, either. And now, after her actions in Darkshore, Lordaeron, and it seemed Theramore, she seemed poised to follow in the dark footsteps of one she had so hated. It was truly puzzling. Baine did not wish to waste much thought on the matter, but he could not seem to help himself. Perhaps fortunately—perhaps not—there were other, more pressing concerns at the moment.

“Why have we come here?” he asked.

Sylvanas’ glowing eyes regarded him from beneath the shadow of her hood, but she did not slow. “There is something I wish for you to see,” she told him.

They walked the all but empty halls of the Underhold, its forges silent, the braziers cold. A few torches sputtered to light the path before them, but it was only enough to show the way. Baine stumbled more than once in the shadows, but his companion had no such difficulty. He suspected Sylvanas must have walked the cold stones of the unoccupied hold many times to be so familiar with her path.

“When we last spoke you asked me if the Alliance knew that Saurfang had survived. I told you they did not, and that I wished to keep the information from them.” She turned to him in the darkness. Only the unnatural red glow giving any indication where her gaze lay. “My intention had always been to do so, but your question gave me much to consider. Already some of our own have turned against us, helped the high overlord to escape my grasp.” When Baine feigned surprise, she said, “Oh, yes, High Chieftain. The Horde is not so close that we can be complacent, even among our friends.”

In that, at least, they agreed. Baine continued walking, and kept silent. Sylvanas would fill the void where his own words might have taken space. He could learn a great deal more by listening.

“You may be wondering how I know that it was members of the Horde who aided him,” she said. “You see, I had anticipated that certain… sympathetic individuals might seek to free the high overlord, and prevent his fate. Some, even, who could conceivably find themselves moved by his _affection_ for the humans.” She scoffed. “And their king.”

Baine nearly stopped where he was, lost in the halls of the Underhold. Only his desire to maintain the appearance of loyalty for the sake of his people kept him from giving in to his instincts. _Sylvanas is no fool_ , he reminded himself again. No fool, and yet he had been certain he could deceive her. Was she leading him into a trap?

They came upon a locked door. It was iron, and studded in spikes, like most of the construction in the vast hold. From somewhere beneath her cloak Sylvanas produced a key, and she turned it in the lock. The wide metal door groaned like a ghoul as it opened. Inside was dark, but she directed Baine to enter before her, and he did so, his senses heightened and straining in the stillness. His heart beat so loudly he was certain she could hear it. An execution in the dark tunnels below the city seemed fitting from one such as Sylvanas, but he did not think it would suit her purposes. A public sentencing would be more fitting. Why, then, the darkness? The doublespeak? He snorted. It would be better if she had simply come right out and called him a traitor.

Beneath the light of her torch he could see only the rough-hewn floor, but soon they came to a turn, and there Baine saw a warmly lit hall up ahead, the flickering lights within visible through an open door. His unease subsided somewhat as they approached. There were sounds, others speaking, though he could not tell how many. He thought he heard familiar voices.

“I have gathered fellow members of the Horde here in order to address this threat. They are waiting inside,” Sylvanas said. She gestured, and Baine, against all the wisdom he possessed, obeyed.

He entered the room and froze in his tracks. It was not a _room_ at all, he realized only too late, but a prison. Two matching walls of cells that stretched from one end to the other, and close to two dozen were already filled. Baine caught a shock of red hair and pale blue skin, and realized that the first cell belonged to the young troll, Zekhan. One by one he looked upon the faces of those who had been sent to rescue Saurfang on his journey back to Orgrimmar. And then finally, in the farthest cell, sat Archdruid Hamuul Runetotem. His eyes held Baine’s for a moment, and in their depths he saw all he needed to know. The terrible truth that none of it, from the moment he had chosen to turn against Sylvanas, had happened by chance.

“Saurfang was a prize, to be sure,” Sylvanas said behind him. From the darkness at her back appeared first her loyal dark rangers, and then the smirking visage of Nathanos Blightcaller himself. They must have followed the two leaders through the shadows, Baine realized belatedly. “I admit, his execution would have amused me greatly, but he was never the true target. Not yet.” There was a smile in her voice as she added, “Oh, he will die. And I will hang his corpse from the walls of Orgrimmar—after I’ve made a gift of his head for the little lion.”

One of the dark rangers approached a nearby cell and opened the door. It scraped across the rough-carved stone, and the sound was as deafening as it was ominous.

“You see, High Chieftain,” she continued, and now her use of the title had taken on a mocking tone, “I have no patience for the sentimentality of the living. Those guided by their soft, beating hearts. I knew you would be among the first to turn, and I could have dealt with you ages ago.” She stepped forward, and the point of a blade in his back urged Baine to walk with her. He turned, and saw that it was Blightcaller who held the weapon. Always so obedient, Sylvanas’ hound. “I could have left you to die in Lordaeron. Your death at the hands of the Alliance would have had your people howling for blood. But I knew you would serve my needs much better as a _beacon_. A focal point for the rebellion against my rule.

“And when others rallied to your cause—whatever great offense prompted you to turn against me first,” she said wryly, “I would have the opportunity to cull them as one. You have exposed my enemies for me, Baine. And in doing so you have not only gifted me with a newly strengthened Horde, but you have revealed a weakness I’d not anticipated.” She turned now to Hamuul Runetotem, who Baine could see was not only locked behind his own set of heavy iron bars, but chained by a collar at his throat. Spikes welded to the outside bore smears of dried blood and fur. “The druids of Moonglade, so proud of their precious harmony. Proud enough to betray their own, it would seem.”

Baine surged forward, his nostrils flaring. “The Cenarion Circle had nothing to do with this, Sylvanas! We acted alone!”

“I can see now that burning the kaldorei rats from their nest was not nearly enough. In order to protect my people I must take more severe action.”

He was ushered into a cell by Blightcaller and two of the dark rangers, and manacles were swiftly attached to his legs. He could scarcely reach the bars of his cell for the short length of the chains. “If you set your army on Moonglade, you will go to war with every druid on Azeroth. With the Earthmother herself. You will not win,” he promised her.

“Moonglade?” She smirked. “Moonglade is but a gathering place. A staging site for your silly rituals. No, in order to secure the Horde’s future I must take _all_ sources of strength from those who would harm it.”

Baine cried out and lunged for the bars. His chains held fast and he crashed to the floor, landing on his knees while around him Sylvanas and her loyal followers laughed at his misfortune. “You will bring the wrath of all Azeroth down upon yourself with this madness, Sylvanas. Mark my words—”

“Funny,” Sylvanas said. She made a gesture, and the rangers filed out, disappearing back into the shadows. Blightcaller locked Baine’s cell before following them. “Saurfang said much the same to me.” She crouched before his cell, and placed a hand on the bars to lean closer, looking into his eyes with a wicked smile. “And yet I remain, and you have both lost _everything_.”

 

* * *

 

 

Anduin sat upon the hard stone of the keep’s small garden terrace. His back was to a pillar, but his head was turned, looking out over the black expanse of the sea beyond the harbor. Most of the slips were empty now. A number of their ships had been destroyed in Darkshore. _Lost, along with all the poor souls aboard. Failed by their disappointment of a king, who put his faith in a lie._

But it was not just the soldiers who had died, the sailors, the night elves who had insisted upon being there when the Alliance set foot upon a freed Darkshore. Saurfang, too, had given his life. _For nothing._

“Anduin?” Genn’s voice came through the dark, startling Anduin from his thoughts. Learning to ignore the shadows that seemed to shift and writhe in the corners of his vision had come at a cost. He had not noticed the older king’s approach. “What are you doing out here at this hour?” he asked.

Anduin’s eyes had long since adjusted to what little light pierced the clouds above. He looked up to find Genn peering at him curiously, and clearly worried. He was in a plain shirt and pants, with only a pair of cloth slippers to cover his feet. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in days. “You’ll catch cold sitting there. Let’s get you back to your chambers.”

Anduin shrugged a shoulder. He turned back to the harbor. “I’m not cold,” he said.

“That may be, but you should get some sleep—”

“Not tired, either.”

He could almost hear Genn’s frown. “Well, it’ll do you no good to sit there, staring at nothing all night. Come, we’ll go to the kitchen. I’ll have some tea prepared for you.”

“How do you think he died?” Anduin asked. He had not looked at Genn, but he was certain the other king was taken aback by the question. He should have been. _He wanted it from the beginning._

It took a moment, but Genn said, “I—I couldn’t say.” He cleared his throat. “To be perfectly honest, Anduin, I’m not sure I want to imagine it. And you shouldn’t either.”

Despite Genn’s advice, Anduin went on. “She would have made certain it was painful.” _Bloody._ “Prolonged.” _Agonizing._ “A spectacle.” _Dragged before the cheering crowds, his broken body on display for all to see._

“Anduin. Don’t do this to yourself.”

Something moved in the night outside, and Anduin looked away from it. “It was my fault, you know. I should have destroyed the letter.”

Genn came closer, and Anduin fought the urge to recoil. He did not want compassion or understanding. He did not want to be consoled for his loss. “My boy, you could not have predicted the depths to which that loathsome creature would sink,” he said softly, and the patronizing tone made Anduin’s skin prickle hotly with anger. “You may be clever, but you do not think like a monster.” He put a hand on Anduin’s knee, gave it a gentle squeeze. His next words were filled with sadness. “Only the monster can do that.”

For a moment Anduin allowed the hand to linger there, and he almost—almost let himself be soothed by the gesture. But then he jerked away from Genn’s touch, and drew both knees up to his chest. Like he had when he was a child, upset by things he couldn’t control, he wrapped his arms around his legs.

No, he had not thought like a monster. He hadn’t even been able to conceive of how he might. _But perhaps it was time to learn._

“Grief is… a powerful, painful thing,” Genn continued. He did not seem to care whether Anduin was listening. There was sudden movement, and Anduin realized it was not the shadows, but Genn. He had taken a seat upon the steps up to the grassy patch in the center of the garden. “It will eat away at you if you let it.”

“I am not grieving, Genn,” Anduin said.

“My boy, it’s me. You don’t have to be the king right now. You’re a young man who has just lost someone you—” He stopped and cleared his throat. “Someone you cared for a great deal.” He was quiet for a moment, and then Anduin heard him shifting again, settling himself in a different position on the steps. The stone was rather unforgiving, he couldn’t have been comfortable, yet he stayed and continued to speak. Uselessly urging Anduin to go easy on himself. “Yes, you trusted the Banshee Queen, and she betrayed you. But that is not _your_ fault. You must never blame yourself for doing what you believe is right. And you certainly mustn’t punish yourself for it. You are entitled to feel the sadness that is in your heart, regardless of what others expect of you.”

A part of Anduin wanted to heed his words, despite knowing how little Genn himself believed them. The effort it took to hold back his pain left his jaw and head aching. He felt warm, liquid heat behind his eyelids, but he could not surrender to it. Something stronger, angrier, held his heart. It filled his mind, and all he could think of was how _wrong_ it all truly was. It _was_ his fault. And it was his responsibility to make amends. Grief would only ease his own burdens, it did nothing for the dead.

Anduin fought back the emotions that threatened to consume him. He stood and brushed the dust and dirt from his clothes. Distantly he realized that it was quite cold. Genn had been right about that much, at least. The keep was high up on a hill, and the wind off the sea was always strongest at night. Clouds covered the moons and stars above, but lamps lit the harbor below, and braziers, torches, and other lights dotted the sprawling city that lay between. Little pinpoints of bright in all the dark. Once he would have found comfort in that. “You’re mistaken,” he said. “This isn’t about me.”

It seemed Genn had expected more, but when Anduin did not continue, he stood up and drew closer. Perhaps fearing something tragic was about to happen, he placed a hand on Anduin’s shoulder. From the corner of his eye Anduin could see the unguarded worry that creased his brow and deepened his near-constant frown.

At the same time that Genn opened his mouth to speak something caught his eye in the harbor and stopped him. Moonlight had pierced the clouds overhead, shining down on the small handful of ships that bobbed gently in the waves. It fell upon the white stone and neat rows of weapons, supplies, and other provisions of war. Even at the late hour it showed the dock workers and sailors hurrying about their work, so small when viewed from high up in the keep. And past it all, moored just beyond the harbor, was a small fleet of warships so large they dwarfed the Alliance vessels by half again, perhaps even more. Their green sails proclaimed their origin, but the blue and gold lions that flew from their masts declared proudly their loyalty.

He heard Genn swear at the sight. “Anduin, those are…”

“Compliments of the Lord Admiral,” Anduin said. He didn’t try to hide his satisfaction at Genn’s shock. _He never believed. Let him see now how wrong he was._

But it seemed even Genn Greymane was not so easily impressed. “Just what do you intend to do with these ships?” he asked warily. “If you’re thinking of returning to Darkshore—”

Anduin shook his head. “I have no intention of going back to Darkshore.” Not yet, anyway. The time would come, but there were other matters that needed his attention first. _Vengeance._

“What, then?”

He had leapt at the opportunity to win Darkshore back for the night elves, to fulfill his promise to Fen Songleaf, and do what he had thought was best for the Alliance. And in doing so he had walked right into a trap set by Sylvanas, baited so brazenly that everyone but Anduin himself had been able to see it. Even Saurfang must have known that he was dying for nothing.

“You knew I was not truly willing to pay the price that stopping Sylvanas required, because I did not know what it was. I thought that I could be the man I wanted to be and still win this war. I see now that was wrong. Worse than wrong, really. It was selfish. You called Sylvanas a monster,” he said, turning now to look into Genn’s eyes. The other king looked back, as though searching for something he thought lost. _Something long gone._ “Monsters cannot conceive of peace. They cannot abide it.”

“Anduin…”

“So I will respond to this monster the only way she understands.”

_With death._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since we're coming up on 8.2 and there's no telling what Blizzard might pull these days, I want to make it clear that regardless of what happens in the game, I will continue to write this story as planned. I'll probably write a few after it, too. As much as I'd like to keep major events as close to canon as possible, it simply isn't always going to work that way. Especially if they start killing people.
> 
> (Oh, and feel free to pop by my profile here for info on prompts. It's nice to take my mind off a complicated project once in a while.)

The rain beat down upon the remnants of what had once been a small fishing village. Blood now ran in rivers throughout the muddy paths and alleys that connected the small huts; homes that had housed men and women, children, and the sum total of lives lived together at the edges of an empire. It mixed with the rain, but what had been spilled was far darker, far thicker and more plentiful, than what the efforts of the swollen sky could dilute. Genn lifted one of his boots and grimaced at the blood that had stained the leather a dark black-brown. His own hands were filthy with it, and his vest and coat were similarly spattered with the signs of his part in the fighting. Once it might have brought him a great deal of joy, tearing his way through the enemies of the Alliance. But he could take no pleasure or pride in this… slaughter.

The civilians had been given ample time to flee, at least. Anduin was not so lost to his own terrible grief that he had forsworn honor and decency. Still, the victory—if it could be called such, with a company of trained soldiers sweeping away a handful of the Horde’s “finest”—felt hollow. It felt like revenge, rather than justice. Genn had never been one to quibble over the difference himself, and so he held his tongue now. He at least had the good grace to recognize his own hypocrisy. But even so, even if, deep down, he doubted his right to question his king, he feared that Anduin was making a grave mistake. One that might haunt him when the weight of his pain finally lifted.

He watched the men as they methodically combed the town, checking each hut and moving on to the larger structures, as though searching for something. These buildings were built from stones that had been pulled directly from the earth, and the primitive mortar that bound them together had not been sufficient to withstand the Alliance weapons. Through the hole left by a mortar round he could see the armored heads of the soldiers as they picked through what had once been a gathering place of sorts. It was a large, round building, with its interior mostly open floor save for a firepit in the center. Comfortable rugs still lay in widening circles around the room. There didn’t seem to be anywhere to actually hide anything.

This was _just_ a village. The Horde army maintained a presence, yes, but it was superficial at best. A token show of support. The blasted backwater was barely on the map! He almost thought it possible the guards hadn’t even known they were at war, for all that they had been so pathetically underprepared for an enemy assault.

What was the point of it, then? What was Anduin hoping to gain?

It was the third such attack they had carried out in just over a week, each targeting a different small Horde outpost in some far-flung part of the world. Anduin had split the number of his new forces, leaving a good three-quarters of the Kul Tiran fleet behind in Stormwind under the command of Captain Tandred Proudmoore. The remaining four vessels, led by the warship Anduin had taken for his own, had sailed on without a word of when they might return. The decision had been a contentious one, and Genn had been a breath from outright treason in his attempts to convince Anduin that his plan, whatever its ultimate purpose, was reckless at best.

And the ship itself… The thought of it had him raking his fingers through his hair as he blew out a breath into the rain. _Varok’s Honor_. When he’d learned the name Genn had been overwhelmed by the urge to wrap Anduin in his arms and hold him tight. To give this young man whose great heart was so very wounded a moment to simply feel his own sadness. At the same time, he had wanted nothing more than to take his shoulders and shake him until he accepted the truth of his own terrible grief. His behavior bore all the hallmarks of deep denial, and certainly no one would know what that looked like better than Genn Greymane. But knowing the shape of the problem did nothing to solve it, and that was as frustrating as it was worrying. His desire to do something for Anduin was thwarted by his own experience with the very same sort of darkness that gripped the boy now.

At least, it _seemed_ the same…

Not for the first time, Genn found himself thinking of his last conversation with Saurfang. The orc had been rightly troubled by Anduin’s strange behavior, and proposed some wild theory that it was not Anduin himself, but something else that was driving him. Something perhaps related to the artifact that the druid Fen Songleaf had forced him to wear. Genn admittedly didn’t know a great deal about the workings of the Light, at least not outside of the effects he had felt and witnessed himself. But he had trouble imagining how its temporary absence could affect Anduin so deeply. Still, it was perhaps foolish to ignore Saurfang’s concerns simply because they did not align neatly with what Genn himself wanted to believe, or knew of a subject that was so vastly outside his own ken. He simply wasn’t sure what to do with that theory, if he could do anything at all.

There was a loud crack of gunfire, and Genn was abruptly drawn from his musings by the violent report. He cursed and rushed to find the source of the sound. Rounding the side of a hut, he came upon a young Kul Tiran soldier in an Alliance tabard, his arms still raised and holding a rifle at the ready. An orc lay dead only a few yards away. A hole had been blasted in his chest. He was not armed.

“What’s happened here, why did you fire?” Genn demanded. He reached out and slapped the weapon, forcing the soldier to lower its barrel to the ground. “Who gave you the order to fire?”

“That savage was about to charge, King Greymane, sir, I’m sure of it,” the soldier explained. His thick Tiragardian accent made it difficult to tell his tone. A part of Genn, the angry part with sharp fangs and claws, wanted to believe there was a thread of insolence in those words. He forced it back down before it could rise too far and complicate an already difficult situation.

The words _“Don’t call him that!”_ danced on the tip of his tongue. Instead he snarled, “We don’t kill unarmed civilians in the Alliance!” The rebuke was harsh, but not undeserved. A soldier who could not hold his fire had no place in the ranks of the militia. “Go back to the ship. Surrender your weapon to the captain and find a bunk to mind until I’ve decided what to do with you. You’re lucky I don’t have you hauled back in chains for this.”

A voice called out. “Stay where you are.”

It was Anduin. He had come through the crowd forming around the scene, and they parted for him as he passed. Rain ran down his helm and dripped from the lion’s muzzle. Genn’s gaze jumped to the dead orc on the ground, and he stepped forward to block Anduin’s view of the body. “Your Majesty,” he began, “I hadn’t realized you’d already come ashore. I’ve dealt with the matter. You needn’t concern yourself—”

“Go back to the ship, Genn.”

Genn started, stunned by the cold intensity of Anduin’s command. His mouth hung open, his tongue weighed down by an objection that died before it even began.

“But, Anduin—”

“I’ll handle this,” Anduin said. When Genn hesitated, he added, “Unless you doubt your king’s ability to command his own men.”

The question—and barely a question at that—carried with it a silent ultimatum: Genn could rise to the bait and challenge Anduin’s orders, or he could do as he’d been told and slink back to the ship with his tail between his legs. His only other choice was to stand there like a fool, which he would not do. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and he struggled to keep control of his temper. He could not see Anduin’s blue eyes beneath the helm even as he sought them. The shadows inside were too dark in the dim grey light, and the rain made a blur of the distance between them. Finally, with no other option but to make his choice, Genn raised his chin, straightened his back, and gave a quick and courteous nod. Without another word he turned and marched from the village, leaving the bodies and the blood behind, the mud and the burned and shattered homes. He felt his teeth grinding and the muscle on the side of his jaw jumping wildly as he walked, but he would not satisfy his anger with action today.

It was impossible to say who had been right; if Saurfang’s strange theory held any merit, or if Genn’s concerns for Anduin’s state of mind were indeed valid. Anduin was not himself, and yet he was, and Genn was furious and brimming with fear. For the first time in a very long while he did not know what to do about it, but getting himself locked up for treason would not solve anything.

He returned to the ship and climbed aboard, retreating to his own cabin to escape the endless rain and the thick, oppressive air that accompanied it.

“ _Varok’s Honor,_ ” he scoffed once he was alone. Oh, it was a worthy name, alright—though he had his doubts the newly-appointed lord admiral would appreciate having one of her gifts christened in honor of an orc. No, it was the purpose to which the vessel had been set that left him wondering how appropriate the name had been. He very much doubted that Varok Saurfang would have approved of anything that had taken place that day.

Genn pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes for a few seconds, and then blinked away the swirls that formed before him. He looked down at his clothes. The blood was everywhere. Dark red, almost black, and clinging to him like some sort of vile, living thing. He began to pull the clothing from his body, casting it across the cabin into a pile he could not be certain he would ever willingly touch again. He sat on the end of the bunk and closed his eyes.

It was true, he did not know a great deal about the workings of the Light. But he knew it was there, and he knew how to pray for its guidance, and that would have to be enough.

 

* * *

 

 

“The scouting party has returned early. They’ve found something.”

Saurfang had been sharpening the double-edged axe he’d salvaged from a defeated enemy when Songleaf found him. He was sitting on a tree stump, his legs crossed, the weapon propped between his knees. “We can avoid the Horde,” he grunted, continuing his work. “If their own scouts haven’t spotted us yet, it’s likely we’re well outside their patrol route. They won’t come looking without reason.” He smirked. “Grunts aren’t known for their initiative.”

But Songleaf shook her head. “Not Horde,” she said, her voice grave. “Something else.”

He looked up then, and she gestured for him to follow.

 

  
Loath as he was to admit it, he had learned a few tricks during his time among the night elves. In his life he had never had much cause to move silently; stealth was a concern of rogues and other unsavory characters, as far as he was concerned. For a warrior, the element of surprise was largely about speed. He’d learned that early on, and he was swift enough when he needed to be. But the night elves moved with the grace of a subtle breeze, and beside them Saurfang was little better than a lumbering, one-legged ogre. By necessity he had begun to observe their movements and mimic them. His first attempts were clumsy, of course, and it had not been three whole days since they had last amused themselves recounting his failed efforts, but he was learning. He could master any form of combat, and it would not take _him_ three hundred years.

They crept along the lower half of a ridge that Saurfang had at first taken to be another result of the Cataclysm’s upheaval. So much of Darkshore’s flat land had been hurled about and torn, twisted by Deathwing’s rage. But as they ascended to the edge, he saw that he was very, very wrong in that assumption. This was no great rend in the earth, but a carefully conducted excavation, carried out by cloaked and hooded figures who moved about the site accompanied by— _things_ he had no words to describe. Strange symbols littered the ground in circles drawn with magic neither arcane nor fel in origin. Saurfang watched, transfixed, as they acted out their corrupt rituals seemingly without a care for the war around them.

As he had that thought, he realized who and what it was gathered in the quarry below. He supposed the hulking monstrosities should have been his first clue. “Twilight’s Hammer,” he rumbled beneath his breath. “Cultists.” Enemies of even the Banshee Queen, and certainly of all those who lived on Azeroth.

He saw Songleaf’s small nod, and knew that she had reached the same conclusion perhaps before he had. “I would order an attack,” she whispered, but said nothing else. She didn’t have to. Attacking now would leave them exposed, and if the Twilight’s Hammer was operating so brazenly, perverting the very earth out in the open as they were, the Horde undoubtedly knew about it. Going down into the quarry would be suicide.

Saurfang hummed a thoughtful rumble and said, “Wouldn’t mind killing them.” However, when Songleaf gave the signal to retreat, he obeyed as well. They made their way back to the camp in the same silence as they had come.

“There were kaldorei among them,” he heard Songleaf mutter as she walked beside him. She shook her head, and her long ears swayed with the gesture. “I find it difficult to fathom how they could stray so far from Elune’s light.”

That was easy enough to understand, he thought. “There is a great deal more darkness to compete for their devotion.”

Songleaf gave him a sidelong look. “Is that so?” she asked, tilting her head just so. “Perhaps you are right. But I think light is so much stronger than dark, Lord Saurfang. Even the flicker of a candle is enough to peel back the shadows in a shuttered room.” She raised her glowing eyes to the stars that peeked through the scattered clouds above, barely visible between the branches. “It takes a great deal of darkness to overcome that small flame, don’t you think?”

Saurfang didn’t answer. He suspected it was not her intention that he should. Instead he walked, and absently rubbed his thumb across the length of soft leather that was tied around his wrist. Her words stayed with him as they entered the camp, as they parted ways, and even as he took his seat upon the stump to resume his work. They lingered, drifting back and forth through his mind while he honed the edges of the axe until they gleamed lethally. He understood the wisdom she had tried to impart, even as he bridled at the thought of being spoken to like a novice shaman. But while he accepted those words, and perhaps even agreed with them, he also knew it was not always so simple. Sometimes that little light was not enough. Sometimes the darkness was simply overwhelming.

 

* * *

 

 

“You may enter.”

The quiet cough outside his tent had come from Mathias Shaw, Genn was sure of it. When the spymaster stepped inside a moment later he was privately proud of himself for having guessed correctly. There was little else to do in the camp _but_ amuse himself with trivialities. He had no missives to send, nor supplies to requisition. The hit-and-run nature of their current campaign had required prior planning that it seemed only Anduin himself had been privy to. Or Anduin and the Kul Tiran captains, who did not answer to any but the king. As a result, Genn was left to wait, and wonder, and hope that he had made the right decision by choosing to give Anduin the space he seemed to need.

Shaw’s presence was at least a break from the monotony, and Genn appreciated that. He also appreciated that the spymaster was not a man given to theatrics. He simply stood before Genn’s desk, saluted, and waited for permission to speak. “I think you should come with me,” was all he said once he had been given leave to do so. He undoubtedly meant to the Horde town their soldiers were currently annihilating. Genn couldn’t say he felt as good about that as he would have liked to.

Without looking up from his desk—and the letter he was writing to Mia, which served no purpose but to distract himself and reassure his wife that he had not simply disappeared—Genn said, “The king has commanded me to remain behind in the camp unless there is an emergency.” He sneered only for his own benefit. “He was quite clear about that.”

It was the utter silence from Shaw that finally drew his attention away from the letter. He looked up and frowned. “What is it?” he asked. “Is Anduin hurt?”

Shaw hesitated. “You should come with me.”

 

  
The horses’ hooves beat hard upon the dry earth as they made their way to the outskirts of the Horde town. It was no backwater fishing village this time, but a much larger settlement, scattered across the open ground of the Barrens as though it had simply built up in place over time. Genn thought he might have even seen it in passing during his ride across the plains with Saurfang, when they had set out to rescue Anduin from what turned out to be his own allies. But then much of the region looked the same to him. Of course, there were the usual stone and mortar huts, with their thatched roofs draped in hides to block out the merciless sun. Typically orcish in design, those. More than once he spotted a tent dotting some gap between the permanent structures, though not as many as one might have expected so close to Mulgore. There were also much larger buildings, their walls rough-forged from iron and covered in spikes; remnants of Garrosh Hellscream’s reign.

Even from a distance it was clear that the small town had been settled by more than just orcs. Troll fetishes hung from the wooden supports, and a towering totem stood proudly on the western edge, painted in bright colors that seemed incongruous with the brutal shapes around it. Genn even spotted what appeared to be a Forsaken laboratory, for all that it was bedecked in countless bleached skulls and other dry viscera. He would forever question how races so attuned to the natural world, such as the Tauren, could stomach living amongst undead abominations and their defiance of all the laws of nature.

With so many races of the Horde represented, it was almost strange to see the stark blue and silver of Alliance armor milling about the area. Genn scanned those present as he rode up with Shaw, and quickly spotted Anduin in the center, standing near a bonfire. It was only as he drew closer that he realized there was something strange about it.

“ _Light,_ ” he breathed, swallowing back his disgust as he covered his mouth and nose with his gloved hand. Bodies were burning in stacks like kindling, and the terrible smell hit him almost as swiftly and powerfully as the sight of it. He dismounted and absently handed the reins to a nearby footman. Shaw was at his heels as he marched past the soldiers and into the camp. He walked right up to Anduin, who, Genn could see now, was standing before a row of three Horde prisoners. They were on their knees, hands bound behind their backs. Not a one of them appeared to be wearing armor. Were they even soldiers themselves?

“Your Majesty?” Genn asked, doing a poor job of hiding his shock and dismay at what he’d seen since arriving.

“Genn, I’m glad you’re here,” Anduin said. There was a smile in his voice, even if Genn could not see one beneath his helm. He held his arms out as though offering him a seat in a banquet hall.

It was clear now why Shaw had come for him. This was… absolutely appalling. He could not imagine anything they had encountered would warrant such a brutish response. He waved his own arm in an all-encompassing gesture at the carnage. “What in the Light is going on here?”

Anduin immediately stiffened at the question, and whatever camaraderie he’d felt before bled away in an instant. “War,” he said flatly. He nodded toward the prisoners. “If you have any questions for these men, now is the time to ask.”

Genn looked over the three; two half-rotted Forsaken and a young goblin. From their attire it was easy to guess that the former were the proprietors of the laboratory. Both were eerily still, and their glowing eyes showed no signs of fear, if they felt any at all, but the goblin was shaking so hard his long ears were practically flapping. He looked to Genn imploringly, and though Genn felt sympathy for his plight, his own hands were more or less as tied as the goblin’s. He could only take comfort in the certainty that Anduin would never order his men to slay unarmed prisoners.

“No, I have none,” he said honestly, turning his attention back to the king. “What are _yours_ , if I may ask?” He tried to deny that his mind had briefly gone to thoughts of torture. But that was unthinkable, surely.

Anduin watched him for a moment, and Genn silently pleaded for him to answer. To explain himself and this strange campaign he was waging. The soldiers around them began to murmur quietly amongst themselves. He could feel eyes upon him, and not all were kind.

Finally he said, “No questions. I’ve learned all I need from them.” Behind him the apothecaries seemed to slump in their bonds, defeated.

Genn nodded. He started to reach for Anduin’s arm, but then thought better of it. Not here, in front of these men, whom Genn was beginning to suspect were more comfortable with their king’s recent methods than he. Anduin had not allowed him to be so informal for some time. Not since Saurfang’s death, in fact. It was unlikely he would welcome it now.

Anduin continued. “We’ll need to break camp. Prepare the men to return to the ships.”

“As you command,” Genn said, bowing slightly. That, at least, was an order he could understand and appreciate. The sooner they were away from Kalimdor the better. He caught Shaw’s eye as he turned; there was a great deal for the two men to discuss upon their return to camp. He wanted to know what else he had seen. It was high time Genn had a lengthy conversation with his king—in private, of course—and Shaw’s input would no doubt prove vital to understanding what he would be up against.

“Spymaster.” Anduin’s voice cut across the air between them as sharp as a blade. “You will remain here,” he said. “Genn can handle things back at the camp.”

Genn looked to Shaw, whose carefully controlled body language betrayed none of his own feelings, though he privately thought he could sense the spy’s displeasure.

Behind Anduin the two apothecaries and the goblin still knelt in the dirt. They would spend the rest of the war as prisoners, unless fate intervened and they were released for some reason. It was by no means ideal, but a better fate than the Horde had granted those poor souls who stumbled into its path. There had been a time, not so long ago, when Genn might have found himself fearful that Anduin would simply release all three, and send them scurrying back to Sylvanas to share details of their brief encounter with the Alliance. Now, with Anduin’s armor illuminated by the vivid orange glow of the fire, he found himself wondering if this time  _he_ wasn’t the one being naive.

“I have a different task for you, Spymaster,” Anduin said. The menace implicit in those words was clear even to Genn.

No. This was _Anduin_ , for Light’s sake. Anduin, who had once claimed that even Garrosh Hellscream could change for the better. Whose compassion Genn had praised and reproved in equal measure over the years. He had to believe that his faith was not misplaced, and that it would take much more than the loss of a loved one—another loss among so many—to break his good spirit. He had to, because if he was wrong—

“You’ll see to it immediately.”

Shaw’s hands curled into fists at his sides. Around them the soldiers who had been so relaxed before were suddenly alert. The air was thick with tension.

Genn forced himself to turn away and return to his horse. He had to believe that Anduin was still, at his core, the boy he had known and come to care for so deeply. Because if he was wrong, he wasn’t certain what, if anything, he could do about it.

 

* * *

 

 

Saurfang was drawn from a deep slumber by the shouts of the lookouts, accompanied by cries and panicked screams that echoed between the trees. They were under attack. He hauled himself to his feet with a speed he was certain even the limber elves might appreciate, axe in hand, ready to do battle. But all around him the kaldorei stood similarly ready, and found themselves just as alone. The shouting was not at all so near as it had seemed in his waking dreams.

“We’re leaving,” Songleaf announced to the group as she entered the camp. She had her bow in hand, but her eyes were still half-lidded and heavy. They were more visible in the darkness than his own, but he was certain they could each tell the other had not slept much.

“What’s happened?” he asked her. He was gathering his meager collection of salvaged armor when she approached him.

“The Twilight excavation is under attack by the Horde. Normally, I would take a moment to enjoy their demise,” she added, “but that puts our own enemies too close to us for my liking.” She reached down and picked up Saurfang’s supplies for him. “We should get as far away from here as possible before—”

There was another shout of surprise, and a flurry of movement in the darkness. His own eyes were not meant to peer through the shadows as the elves’ were, but he caught the shape of a cloaked figure barreling through the trees, heading directly for their camp. Songleaf dropped the bag and lifted her bow, but the cloaked figure was ducking between the elves, moving erratically, twisting to look back over his shoulder as he ran. Saurfang growled and lunged and met the intruder as he flew past, reaching out for his throat and bearing him to the ground on his back in one swift motion. The dark hood fell away, revealing the face of a human. Deep, shadowy circles lined his eyes, and his gnarled fingers clawed weakly at Saurfang’s arm, unable to do more than scratch. He was pinned in place, gurgling around the hand that held his throat. The tatters of his robe flew about as he flailed in vain.

“He’s one of the cultists,” Songleaf exclaimed. She put a hand on Saurfang’s shoulder, and he eased his grip only enough for the human below him to take a breath. “Running from his fate like the coward he is.”

The cultist sneered at Songleaf. He had a split lip that had scarred over and left his mouth an uneven shape, making him appear even more twisted than he was. His dark gaze burned into hers as though he could somehow murder her with only his sunken, beady eyes. Despite his efforts he remained helplessly pinned beneath Saurfang’s hand. “My fate will be yours,” he rasped. He kicked out, hitting nothing. “The fate of all the lesser beings who crawl about and— _hurk!_ ” Saurfang pressed down, and the words caught in the cultist’s throat, choking him with his own hatred until he was finally permitted to breathe again. He gasped and coughed and turned his glare on Saurfang. His face was twisted in rage, rotting teeth bared in a feral snarl. But then all at once he went completely slack, and his eyes grew wide. He gasped in surprise.

And laughed.

The sound was so sharp and unexpected in the silence of the perpetual night that Saurfang nearly let go of him. Nearly. Instead he tightened his hold without adding pressure. A warning. “And just _what_ do you find so amusing, insect?” he demanded.

Caught in the throes of whatever mania had gripped him, the cultist only wheezed his foul breath into the air as he laughed and laughed, his body convulsing along with his amusement. It seemed to go on forever, and in his mind Saurfang imagined different ways of killing him. He was certain Songleaf would have no objection, unless she wished to undertake the task herself. When it ended at last, the cultist took a deep, shuddering breath. “It’s _you,_ ” he said, and the words curled his broken mouth into a smile. “We had thought you dead.”

“Not your first mistake, but certainly your last.”

The threat fell on deaf ears, or ears too filled with the whispers of madness to hear anything else. The cultist shook his head. His smile grew, and it was no longer simple amusement, but genuine pleasure that had taken hold of him. “He has eyes everywhere,” he said gleefully. His body all but vibrated with perverse joy beneath Saurfang’s hand. “He watches.”

More ramblings of a crazed zealot. Meaningless nonsense. “Then he can watch you die,” Saurfang growled, and began to squeeze.

Suddenly the cultist jerked violently and shrieked, “You have lost him!” He laughed again, the sound of his voice suddenly deeper and stronger than before, squirming through Saurfang’s mind as though it had somehow crawled into his ears. “You have _lost_ your boy king!” The words seemed to echo as they filled his skull. The laughter mocked him and chased his thoughts until he could only squeeze his eyes shut and roar in fury to drown out the sound.

It was Songleaf’s light touch on his arm that shook him from whatever had taken hold of his senses for those few seconds. Saurfang blinked and looked down at his hand, at the twisted neck of the cultist, now lying limp in the grass. The dark red impression of his fingers was still visible in the human’s skin.

Songleaf crouched beside him. “Are you alright?”

Saurfang let go and flexed his hand experimentally, as though it might not be his own. He made a fist and tucked it against his chest. He hadn’t intended to kill him, not yet. It had been too many years to count since his rage had burned out of his control, and the thought of it happening so easily now was unsettling, to say the least. But it was not the only worry he had at that moment.

“What did he mean? Why did he know you?” she asked.

He shook his head. He didn’t know. But he was beginning to suspect that someone did.

 

* * *

 

 

Whatever Anduin had been looking for, he seemed to have found it at last.

Genn watched as the soldiers carefully rolled barrel after barrel onto the ship, hurrying the unmarked casks into the hold below. The others had finished striking the camp and ferrying the supplies and beasts back onto the Kul Tiran vessels just before the company’s return, and it was good timing; the decks were clear, and those who knew better had made room for the returning soldiers. Shaw, Genn noted, was not among them.

Anduin himself had returned with the wagons bearing their strange new cargo. His armor was smeared with blood and ichor, and as Genn approached he stood on the forecastle, idly wiping at Shalamayne’s blade with the end of his tabard. They watched the work together, but Genn had a feeling they had never been further apart. “What are they?” he asked, indicating the barrels.

Anduin kept silent, and Genn bit his tongue to keep from snapping. He tried to remind himself of his promise to Varian as he counted each second of silence that ticked by while Anduin ignored his question. He wondered if the boy’s father might have had more luck breaking through this wall of ice he had erected around himself. Then again, it was unlikely they would _be_ in this situation if Varian were still alive, he decided. “Anduin,” he said after more than a minute had passed, “I’m worried about you.”

When that failed to elicit a response, even the sort of polite refusal he once would have expected, Genn said, “You know, I think I’d like to speak to those prisoners after all.”

“That won’t be possible.”

Something sank in Genn’s chest, settling heavily in the pit of his stomach. “My boy, what has happened to them?” he asked carefully.

Anduin turned just enough so that Genn could see some of him beneath the helm. It was unnerving to be faced with that emotionless lion’s snarl every time he tried to speak to the boy, but that had been the shape of their every moment together since departing Stormwind. Some part of him had hoped that facing Anduin eye to eye might make a difference, but that didn’t seem to be the case, to his great disappointment.

“I let them go,” Anduin said.

“Did you?” Genn didn’t need to look at the fresh stains that adorned the armor to know he was lying. Anduin was _lying to him_. What’s more, he didn’t seem to care at all that it was so obvious. If Genn didn’t know better, and he was beginning to suspect that he didn’t, he would have thought he saw a _smile_ in the boy’s eyes beneath his blasted helm.

Anduin turned back to the work below. “Of course,” he said. “Do you doubt me?”

 _Never before now,_ Genn thought. Aloud, he said, “Swear it, right now. Swear that if I returned to that town, I wouldn’t find those Forsaken apothecaries and the goblin on that pyre. That their arms wouldn’t still be tied behind their backs.”

Anduin was quiet for a moment. Genn could see the steady rise and fall of his breastplate. There was no sign of unease in him, no indication that he felt anything apart from cold apathy. It pulled Genn’s heart into his throat, and he waited for what he knew would bring him no comfort, despite desperately hoping it would. “We’re set to pull anchor within the hour,” Anduin said at last, “I wouldn’t advise leaving the ship now.”

Genn bit back on a snarl. “Would you leave me behind, Your Majesty?”

He received no answer to that question, either. Only more silence, and in that vacuum his own doubts were shouting a chorus in his ears. He was not the sort of man who surrendered easily to his emotions, but both fury and sorrow were battling for his heart in equal measure just then, and he was not certain which would win. How had he lost him so quickly?

He asked again, “What was in those barrels, Anduin?”

Anduin’s eyes regarded him, as unreadable as ever, though his body fairly thrummed with some tension Genn could not name. An almost imperceptible nod tilted his helm. “An end to the war,” he said, and promptly walked away without another word.

 

* * *

 

 

“What are you hoping to find?” Songleaf asked. She alone had accompanied Saurfang to the site where he and Greymane had once helped defend the night elves from a Horde attack. He hadn’t asked, and he would never admit it, but he was glad for her company. This was unfamiliar ground for him in every possible sense, and there was no way to tell when an ally would prove useful. Together they moved swiftly through the trees, coming upon the derelict camp far sooner than he had anticipated.

“Your brother’s part in all this,” he muttered in reply.

The camp itself appeared much the same as it had shortly after the battle, only moments before Saurfang had been speared through the chest by the clever thinking of a young orc hunter. The bodies were gone—reclaimed by the Horde, possibly, though more likely dragged away by scavengers. The braziers, once filled with incense that had aided the elves in hiding, were still present, as were the many purple tents in various states of disarray. He knew that Songleaf and her people had returned to honor their dead in their own way at some point, but he had not asked for details, and she had not offered any.

Saurfang himself hadn’t been aware of much after he was injured. Most of what he knew came from secondhand accounts. Songleaf had shared her recollection of events, and those matched with what he knew from Anduin’s own retelling, as well as what little Greymane would speak of without abruptly taking a hard turn into satire. But there was only one detail that mattered to him now: the strange artifact that Fen Songleaf had placed on Anduin during his abduction. It had neatly severed the young king’s connection to the Light, and nearly cost Saurfang his life in the process. Anduin had only discovered the object and removed it at the last possible second, and according to everyone’s collective memory, the artifact had been cast aside and left behind when the camp was abandoned.

Assuming the Horde hadn’t found it and somehow discovered its power, which seemed unlikely, it would still be in the camp somewhere. He only needed to find it; for his own peace of mind, perhaps, or to confirm the fears that had plagued him since he first noticed the changes in Anduin. Whatever the reason, and for better or worse, it would be a step forward. After feeling as though he had been standing in place for so long, even bad news was a welcome change.

Though, something in the back of his mind warned him that he might come to regret thinking that.

Songleaf had hesitated at the edge of the camp, but she quickly jogged up to his side now. “I don’t understand,” she said, “what does my brother have to do with this?”

“Where did he obtain such a powerful artifact?” Saurfang asked. He kept his eyes on the ground, searching for anything that stood out among the debris scattered throughout the tall grass. “Did you even know he had come to possess it?”

From the corner of his eye he saw her shake her head. “Not until King Greymane told me what it had done. After you were healed. I assumed Fen had taken it with him when he fled Darnassus during the fire.”

“Don’t you think an item that powerful, that potentially dangerous, would have been kept closely guarded by the priestesses?”

“Of course, but the temple was burning—”

“And your brother just happened to loot the one item that would allow him to capture Anduin _months_ later,” Saurfang said incredulously. “Well before he could have known that the Alliance would be unwilling to commit its resources to retaking Darkshore and the tree.” He heaped enough doubt on the words that he hoped she would not need further convincing.

“You think someone gave it to him,” she said.

He nodded gravely. “As well as instructions on the best way to use it.”

“My brother was no cultist, Lord Saurfang.” He had expected her to take offense at the insinuation, of course, but the doubt in her voice was a surprise. Perhaps he had underestimated her after all. Blind faith in the dead would do them no good now, and she seemed to understand that.

“Maybe,” he said, trying to offer her some small amount of comfort in return, “maybe not. It no longer matters either way. Whether he carried out the deed himself, or someone used him to do it—”

Something caught his eye; a thin sliver of light, glowing in the light of the moons. He reached into the grass and pulled out a small, thin statuette. At first glance it appeared to be made of some sort of natural crystal, but as he ran his fingers over the surface he found that it felt more like glass, and weighed next to nothing. In Anduin’s hands it would have been rather small; in Saurfang’s it was tiny.

“That is…”

“Not nearly so innocent as it seems,” he finished for her. This was the artifact, he was sure of it. Time had worn away the finer details, but what he could make of it looked like some sort of pointed column. Around its length twined a more organic shape—a leafless vine—growing out of the base and tapering to a point near the top. That wasn’t unusual for an item that had been in the hands of a druid, but he would have expected it to be made of something like stone. This was no feat of nature, but a deliberate, handcrafted design. Entirely seamless from every angle. Only a single spot of color, what appeared to be a bead of amber, lay within the apex. The tip of the vine curled around it almost protectively from the outside.

No, not a vine at all, Saurfang realized with sudden and terrible clarity. Something a great deal more sinister. Older even than druidic magic, and much, _much_ more dangerous.

“We need to get out of Darkshore,” he told her. He stood and pocketed the artifact. Carrying it so close to his own body was not something he relished, but it might prove crucial to have access to it later. At the very least he could prove to the old wolf that he had been right all along. If he could only reach him.

Songleaf held her arms out helplessly. “You know we can’t. We tried, after you came.”

“Then we will have to find some other way.”

“Why?” she asked, clearly agitated by his reaction to the artifact. “Does it mean something? Are we in danger here?”

Saurfang shook his head. He had no skill in magic, no connection to the elements, but he knew enough to sense when something was wrong. He put a hand over the object in his pocket, almost expecting it to be warm, _alive_ somehow. He shuddered at the thought. “Not us,” he said. “Not yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that we've reached this point, ask me how much foreshadowing went into this story and the one before it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! I didn't intend for this chapter to take so long, but everything happened so much for a while, and I just had to put writing aside. However this chapter is almost twice the length of the others, so hopefully that will make up for the wait. Thanks for your patience.
> 
> As always, if you want to check on where I am with new chapters, you are welcome to swing by [my tumblr](https://sedesla.tumblr.com/). I'm pretty incapable of not talking about what I'm doing when I'm writing. And it's better than sitting and waiting in silence.

They had been searching for days, venturing out from the camp for several hours each night, seeking a way to escape the Horde’s chokehold on the region. It proved exactly as impossible as predicted, and each failure built upon Saurfang’s frustration until even he was weary of his own company. His worry that Anduin had been with the Alliance fleet was waylaid by his fear that something a great deal worse had befallen the boy, and he, trapped in Darkshore like a rat in a barrel, could do nothing to help him. Assuming he could do anything at all.

Garrosh had once mocked him, said he’d spend his remaining years in Northrend, watching the spiders spin their webs. As with many things, he had been at least partly right; Saurfang had watched the spiders, and they, with their armored bodies larger than a man’s, had watched him back. The Lich King’s defeat had done little to stem the flow of monstrous creatures birthed from the ruins that sprawled beneath the frozen land. Those fiends had brought with them artifacts of their own, and Saurfang had seen enough of them to spot the signs of ancient evil when it was in his own hand. Anduin had worn the statuette for _days_. He had been locked away from the Light throughout his captivity, and that absence had haunted him long after his return to Stormwind. Only it seemed now that it had not been an absence at all, but the _presence_ of something else. Something far more sinister.

“It’s possible they have already been defeated,” Songleaf mused darkly at his side. “This search may be a lost cause.”

“Where is your boundless hope tonight,” Saurfang muttered in reply. He caught her quick glare, but they had long since grown accustomed to needling one another during their time spent away from the camp, both tired of the search and unconcerned with hiding it. The others had remained behind to watch over those who could not fight, and all the better for it, he thought. It was enough to bear her safety on his conscience, he would not have felt easy looking after others, as well.

“If they were here, I’m certain they would have found _us_ by now.” She was crouched beside him in the brush, watching a group of oblivious Horde soldiers some two hundred yards away. They seemed more interested in throwing sand at one another than actually patrolling the beach. “After all, you are perhaps the most wanted orc on Azeroth,” she continued. The smirk in her voice was clear enough even in the darkness.

“I imagine you could have your pick of rewards for my head,” he said, watching her from the corner of his eye. An abrupt silence from the beach drew his attention again, and he blinked curiously as he realized the soldiers had vanished. Fine hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and he tried to rise—only to meet the curve of cold steel against his skin.

“She should be so lucky,” a cruel voice sneered in Darnassian behind him. “Instead you will _both_ die.”

Saurfang gathered his strength and came about in a whirl that sent the weapon at his neck careening off into the night. The unexpected loss of her weapon left its owner stumbling back, stunned by his fury. He reached for the cloaked figure and wrenched her arm, dropping her to her knees on the forest floor. Beside him Songleaf was beset by another Warden, and Saurfang pulled his own attacker to her feet and threw her into her comrade, briefly incapacitating both women. He jerked back just in time to avoid the swipe of another sinister blade from a third assailant as it sliced the air where his throat had been. His shoulder met the trunk of a large tree and he cursed himself for not being more aware of his surroundings. His carelessness was about to get him killed.

“Accept your fate, orc!” came the harsh cry of perhaps the _last_ elf Saurfang had hoped to meet under such circumstances. Maiev Shadowsong launched herself at him in the space between breaths, in a flash of silver and white broken only by the shadow of her moss-green cloak as it billowed about her armored form. She was without a doubt one of the deadliest beings on the planet, and her sights were set on him. There was no question in his mind what the outcome of such an encounter would be.

Saurfang threw himself out of the path of the Warden’s glaive as she hurled it with the intent to take his head, briefly lodging it in the tree behind him. He could no longer afford to concern himself with Songleaf’s battle against the other two Wardens, catching only glimpses from the corner of his eye as he ducked to avoid another vicious swing. His mind raced with concerns and certainties; chief among those that he _would_ die if he did not find a way to disrupt Maiev's attacks. But this was no fight like he had ever faced before. In battle it was always life or death, and words were irrelevant, but she was no average foe and he could not kill her now. Not if he hoped to escape Darkshore, to reach Anduin in time. Here he needed to reason, to convince her to spare his life, and he was not a man accustomed to begging. The thought alone scraped at his pride like a rusty blade and he growled in frustration.

“We are not your enemies!” he heard Songleaf shout. Her next words were swallowed by the clang of steel meeting steel as she fought to stay alive.

“Tell that to the thousands who burned in Teldrassil’s flames!” Maiev came at him again, answering Songleaf’s insistence with unbridled fury.

The Wardens were toying with them, drawing out the kill. It was only a matter of time before the game lost its appeal and they simply ended it. Saurfang knew he needed to think quickly, to come up with something that would stop the relentless onslaught and save both their lives. He understood, not even for the sake of his own pride, but for the simple truth of it, that begging would not be enough. No doubt others had tried. He knew the contempt he would have felt faced with an enemy whose final act was to reveal their own cowardice, and Maiev, with her centuries upon centuries of experience, would cut him down before he could finish his plea. And so he was left with nothing. No choice but to accept death. Yet in that half-second of understanding, he thought he saw a way through; if nothing he could say or do would work—

What he needed was something _someone else_ would do.

As Maiev pulled back to shift her footing for a surer strike, Saurfang dropped his axe, fell to his knees, and put his hands up in surrender. He could hear Songleaf’s incredulous cry over his shoulder, and then a rough grunt as she was struck somewhere in the middle. She fell to the ground in a heap at his side, gasping for breath in the tall grass.

He could not see Maiev’s smirk, but he could hear it from behind her helm as she came to stand before him. Her glaive was poised high and ready. The unfamiliar squirm of doubt curled in the pit of Saurfang’s belly like a serpent as he raised his eyes to hers. “Are you a coward now as well as a butcher?” she asked him. To his surprise the question seemed genuine, as though she expected an answer. When he didn’t respond she clicked her tongue and complained, “For all the damage you’ve done, I had hoped this would take a bit of time.”

Summoning every ounce of will he possessed, he wrestled down the violent desire to give in to his own mounting rage and tear her apart with his bare hands. He knew he couldn’t, not even at his best. What’s more, he knew if he tried it would not only end in his and Songleaf’s deaths, but Anduin’s, as well. No one else knew what he did about the artifact, about what dark power had possibly enthralled the king. In that fraction of a moment his own pride was irrelevant; he had no other options, only a desperate gamble and a great deal of faith. He made a quick and silent prayer to what powers guided Anduin in his conviction that they would work for him, if only this once. His gaze flicked to the side and he swallowed down the lump of shame that threatened to close his throat. No, not _shame_ , he reminded himself. There had never been any shame in Anduin’s endless efforts to fight with words over weapons. There was no shame in it now. “Kill me,” he said plainly. He lifted his chin and prepared for what could just as easily be his death. Blood pounded in his temples. “Unless,” he hedged carefully, “you believe the honor should belong to your high priestess and her mate.”

Something went rigid in the Warden’s stance at those words, and she slowly lowered her glaive. Hope bubbled up in the center of Saurfang’s chest; he dared not trust that he had actually succeeded. Not so easily, surely? The tension in his body threatened to spill over into a tremor as he awaited her next move. He was excited and nervous and both felt so strange in that moment that he nearly laughed.

Beside Maiev the other Wardens waited. They exchanged glances almost too swift to see, but their doubt was clear nevertheless. “Bind their hands,” Maiev suddenly ordered. Without hesitation the Wardens at her side produced two pairs of shackles.

He could feel Maiev’s burning glare as he was hauled to his feet alongside Songleaf. “Bring them,” she continued, and that too was instantly and mercilessly obeyed. Saurfang’s arms were pulled together and the iron secured tightly around his wrists, but it hardly mattered. The blood pounding in his temples and the powerful wave of satisfaction and pride that had gripped his heart left him oblivious to the discomfort, or the quick, stumbling steps that carried them through the forest to their unknown destination. It had _worked_ , and he had never been more grateful for Anduin’s gentle influence and clever mind. For what he had managed to learn, when he’d long since thought himself past all learning.

They marched on through the dark, and all the while Saurfang could only think of how sweet it would be to witness the smile on Anduin’s face when they spoke of what he’d done.

 

* * *

 

 

Sylvanas idly toyed with the piece of armor between her fingers, opening and closing the hinge almost mechanically while she thought. The metal squealed in complaint, in desperate need of the care it had not seen for some time. There was no telling how long it had been left to languish in the elements, though on the surface it appeared to have been quite a while. Only she knew better. The nicks and scrapes that decorated the cold steel and flaked its paint—the exquisite color of dried blood—were not an indicator of age. Rather, the chaotic, crisscrossed marks told a history of battles fought and won, written lovingly upon every inch like the arcane secrets of a mage’s scroll. And she could read it just as easily as a student of the arcane. A notch where a fatal blow had instead been deflected, its maker no doubt paying dearly for their poor aim; three deep furrows—the work of sharp and furious claws; and a definitive dent along the back of the neck. Curious, that one. The assassins she’d dispatched were far more subtle and skillful. She had no qualms consigning that failure to the Alliance, making the mark far older than its silver gleam might suggest. Everywhere she looked the armor told its story. But what it didn’t tell her was where its owner had gone after he left it behind.

She snapped the hinge shut and locked it in a single motion. The wide circlet, with its imposing spikes and deadly sharp angles, hung from her hand like an oversized bracelet. It was a shame, really. Varok Saurfang was as skilled in the art of death as any of her Dark Rangers. If only the old orc had been sensible enough to stay where he could put those skills to their best use.

“I should send this to the little lion. A gift,” she mused, smiling. “Gratitude for his generous donation of soldiers.”

Standing at the foot of the brutal orcish throne, Nathanos cocked his head curiously. “My lady, you have yet to claim the slain Alliance in Darkshore for your own,” he reminded her.

“True. But it is only a matter of time.” She traced the shape of a spike and let her fingertip linger on the sharp point. “I could include a finger, or an ear.” She imagined the young king’s anguish upon finding the contents of her ‘gift,’ and it delighted her. Anduin Wrynn’s pain was but a taste of the torment she intended to visit upon the leaders of the Alliance. Breaking them one by one would require precision, planning. It would take a delicate touch at times, brute force at others, and always careful attention to the ways they responded. If she happened to enjoy that, well… It could hardly be helped.

She heard Nathanos clear his throat. “You have but two orcs left in the Hold below.”

“And only a piece of one is required.”

He bowed his head, silently conceding her point. She could see the slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Not for the first time she wondered if she shouldn’t have let him kill Saurfang in Theramore. He had certainly earned the privilege.

“I doubt he’ll quibble over the proper shade of green,” she continued, and then scoffed at a thought that abruptly crossed her mind. “Though he’s had plenty of time to _examine it_ , no doubt.” Something about the vulgar liaison between the boy king and her former subordinate bothered her more than she preferred to let on in other company. Not the nature of their relationship. In fact, in some ways that was rather intriguing, actually. And she could not deny that Anduin Wrynn was beautiful—for a human. No, it was the thought of how easily the whelp had ensnared one of her own that crawled beneath her skin like poison. The pretty little golden king, with his wide eyes and soft smile. So convinced of his own goodness. It was no surprise that Saurfang had betrayed her for a chance to taste that sort of virtue.

She had enjoyed the look of shock on Baine’s oafish face when she told him the truth about Saurfang and the Alliance king. Shock, and a valiant—if futile—attempt to mask it. The intelligence she had shared with him regarding the location of their former ally had been true as well; nothing better than honesty to tempt a sentimental fool. And if Baine had not betrayed her, she might have sent him to Darkshore to retrieve her traitorous high overlord. Offered him the privilege of standing at her side as Saurfang once had. The tauren were fierce warriors, and impressively loyal when they had reason to be. Baine, like Saurfang, had simply chosen the wrong side. Inquiries had already begun to arrive from Thunder Bluff, each very politely requesting Baine’s presence on urgent tribal matters. It seemed the high chieftain had been clever enough to warn others of his uncertainty regarding their warchief. But they had not yet become openly accusatory. That meant there was still time to appease the tauren with a satisfactory excuse regarding Baine’s whereabouts— _if_ it became necessary to do so. Once she had Saurfang in hand, and the kaldorei vermin lingering in Darkshore had been dealt with, the question of manpower would become far less pressing.

There was, after all, an entire fleet of Alliance corpses lying in the cold waters off Darkshore, waiting to be raised to undeath.

Unfortunately, any attempts to retrieve the human corpses now would no doubt be interrupted by the high ideals of the remaining night elves and their few Gilnean allies. To say nothing of Saurfang, who her sources claimed had not yet made contact with the high priestess and her ilk. Good news—for the moment. It was only a matter of time before they encountered one another. Ideally such a meeting would prove disastrous for both sides. Saurfang’s actions on behalf of the Horde were no doubt seared into Tyrande Whisperwind’s mind by the very same flames that had reduced her people and their city to ash. One or both parties would likely end up dead in that case, weakening their remaining forces in Darkshore and allowing the Horde to take full and unchallenged control of the region. But if they somehow managed to look past their differences…

Her intention had been to fracture the bonds of the Alliance by sowing discord among its leadership and picking them off one by one. With Whisperwind and the erstwhile princess of Gilneas dead, and Wrynn haunted by his lover’s brutal execution, it would be a simple matter to deal with the rest. But Saurfang was still alive, the high priestess and her feral mate were ransacking Horde encampments at random, and Greymane’s vicious little she-pup was helping them. Now Sylvanas was receiving reports that Anduin Wrynn had gone to his Kul Tiran allies for aid. He had procured a new and admittedly impressive naval fleet for himself, and begun raiding Horde villages seemingly at random. An odd and unexpected response to his grief, but then, she thought, he was a human boy. And he was his father’s son. Perhaps it should not have surprised her that he would react to loss by lashing out.

Regardless, it simply would not do. He needed to be dealt with. Swiftly.

A courier entered the hold, bowed deeply to Sylvanas, and passed a piece of folded parchment into Nathanos’ waiting hands before scurrying away again. He disappeared along with the faint and diffused light from the valley outside as the doors slammed shut behind him.

Nathanos ripped the seal and began to read silently. Sylvanas resumed her idle examination of Saurfang’s face guard. More of a collar, really. She would’ve liked to have seen something very similar on Greymane, she thought. Perhaps she yet would. It made for quite a pretty picture; Anduin Wrynn, kneeling before her throne, his precious pet dog chained at her feet. Greymane would have to be muzzled, of course. Not even a broken cur could be trusted to mind his teeth. And she _would_ break him—or she would kill him.

A sound from Nathanos drew her attention back to the moment, away from her fantasies of the Horde’s unquestioned conquest. “What is it?” she asked.

“It seems you needn’t concern yourself with sending a gift to the boy king after all,” Nathanos said. He was still staring at the missive in his hand. His glowing eyes tracked the words, as though he thought rereading them might change what was on the page.

“Oh?” she asked. “And why is that?” Privately she hoped that perhaps the whelp had simply given up or gotten himself killed. It would certainly simplify matters.

Nathanos grimaced as he looked up at her. “Because the Alliance army is coming _here_.”

 

* * *

 

  
They reached the end of their journey at the edge of what appeared to be an abandoned Horde encampment. Although Saurfang was under no illusions the Horde had left willingly. Behind it lay the ruins of a night elf village—some settlement he had never known the name of, but undoubtedly ordered his soldiers to destroy. He found it difficult to let his gaze linger as long as it rightfully should have. This shame, he thought, was just. It was earned in blood. Yet despite that he straightened himself and squared his shoulders as they entered the camp, his eyes falling upon the host of Wardens, Sentinels, and Gilnean troops that waited there. They were slowly gathering about the new arrivals, a mixture of curiosity and open hatred on their faces. One piercing stare came from a human woman that Saurfang was certain, not only from her countenance but the familiar stubborn set of her jaw, was Princess Tess Greymane. He almost smirked at the sight of her, but quickly thought better of it. Winning over the father had perhaps been easier than convincing the daughter of his good intentions might be.

One of the two Wardens who had captured them was dispatched with stern orders to fetch Tyrande Whisperwind herself. Saurfang privately celebrated this one small victory, if only briefly; he had sought the night elf priestess for more than a week, hoping to ask for her assistance. Now, barring some minor discomfort and a dent in his pride, he had been delivered neatly to her doorstep. He was under no illusions it would be an easy negotiation, and as he waited his own guilty conscience rang loud, reminding him that he deserved all the scorn and fury the night elf leader might have for him. That he had not set the torch to Teldrassil himself was perhaps his only saving grace, and hardly worth much at that. Sylvanas could not have given the order if not for the brutal campaign Saurfang had waged. If not for the axe he had buried in Malfurion Stormrage’s back. At the time he had been proud of the victory over the night elves despite his dishonorable conduct during the brief encounter with the archdruid. Now, looking back, he could not help but imagine himself in Tyrande’s place, holding Anduin as he lay bleeding, watching him die slowly on the forest floor. For just a moment he was unsure of the wisdom in seeking his enemy with the audacity to ask for her aid.

Then Tyrande appeared through the parting crowd, and the earth felt as though it dropped away entirely.

She was not the soft and graceful queen he recalled from their last meeting, but something much harder, much _darker_ , and in her dark eyes were the depths of the night sky itself. Her hair had been pulled back, out of the way. He knew at once it was for the same reason his own was tied into neat braids. She no longer wore the vestments of a priestess, but the armor of a warrior, stained with both dirt and the blood of her enemies. In one hand she carried a weapon of her own that glittered in the strange light of the moon above, swinging at her side as she walked with purpose toward the prisoners. Saurfang couldn’t help but stare and wonder that he had never expected her fury to manifest so openly. This was what she had become in the wake of a loss too great to fathom. This was partly his doing, and he had been naive to think she might only wish him dead for it.

“Maiev, I am surprised to see you standing before me with living prisoners. When you told me you had located the traitors and the high overlord I expected you would return with his head.” She looked down on Saurfang and Songleaf from a short rise near what he now realized was a moonwell, no doubt salvaged from the ruins. Its light was strange, different from what he remembered, though still glowing as water shouldn’t. He was certain it had something to do with the reforged priestess before him.

Maiev Shadowsong said nothing, but cocked her head slightly, and Saurfang was sure that some wordless exchange had passed between the two women. His mouth felt dry. He couldn’t seem to stop looking at Tyrande’s eyes. They were the same color as the moon that haunted the twilight sky overhead, and he did not think that was a coincidence, either.

“Why has Maiev brought you here?” she asked him, turning her attention from the Warden at his side.

His jaw worked on the words for a few agonizing seconds, and then he found his voice. “To let you kill me,” he answered.

A smirk lifted the corner of her mouth, exposing the tip of a single small fang. “An excellent reason. You have certainly earned your death several times over. A pity I can only kill you once, however, unlike your Banshee Queen.”

He had been threatened often enough to know that hers was no idle boast. She would kill him, and she would enjoy every moment of his no doubt slow and agonizing death. “I wish to speak with you before you do,” he said. No point arguing against his fate now.

A general murmur arose throughout the camp, and from the corner of his eye he could see the elves and Gilneans exchanging quiet words and glances. None appeared pleased by the turn of events. That much he had expected. Tyrande’s interest, however, was a surprise. “Why should I grant such a bold request?” she asked. “What have you done to earn an audience?”

He took a deep breath. “Nothing,” he answered honestly. Privately, he wondered, _Anduin, how does this come so naturally to you?_ The urge to simply speak his piece and be done with it was overwhelming, but he knew it would be turned away unheard. Tyrande expected the blunt hand of an orcish upbringing. He had no choice now but to clutch at the grace and subtlety of Anduin’s diplomacy, holding onto it like a lifeline. “I have done nothing to earn your time or your mercy.”

Tyrande arched a single blue-green brow. “And yet here you stand, and you expect both.”

“No. Only an opportunity to… humbly beg your assistance.” The words felt like sand on his tongue, and made his blood burn beneath his skin.

“For your sake?”

“For all of Azeroth, and for the Alliance.” He watched her evenly, waiting. Finally he added, “For the king.”

That sent a ripple through the gathered onlookers, and for the first time Saurfang thought that curiosity might just outweigh murderous intent. He allowed himself a few seconds to breathe. He knew Songleaf was watching him incredulously, and he wished he could tell her that he had no more idea where these words were coming from than she did. Or whether they might actually work.

Tyrande herself seemed torn between amusement and doubt. She glanced briefly at Maiev, and then crossed her arms and gestured for Tess Greymane, of all people. The princess slipped through the crowd and came to stand at Tyrande’s side. The two women exchanged words quietly while Saurfang watched, and for once he wished he had the old wolf there to tell him what was taking place in their whispered conversation. When the princess stepped back again she cast a quick glance at him and frowned, shaking her head while Tyrande looked on. That, Saurfang thought bitterly, did not bode well.

“Have you donned those colors and allied yourself with these treacherous kaldorei in order to convince us that you mean to aid the Alliance?” Tyrande asked. There was a hard edge to her voice that had not been there before she spoke with Tess.

“The tabard was a gift.”

“From whom?”

Ignoring the princess’ harsh stare, Saurfang said, “King Genn Greymane.”

He had not expected that to be met with laughter. He bristled at the indignity of being forced to stand and bear their ridicule quietly, and fought to ease his angry snarl as he glared, one by one, at the smiling faces around him. They were fools, all of them. Of course it was unbelievable; that was what made it so believable.

“You might’ve tried that lie without me here, orc,” Tess said, and her tone was so like her father’s that Saurfang found himself sighing at the sound of it. “My father would never gift you with Alliance colors.”

“Your father and I saved the king,” he replied. “Here, in Darkshore.” Turning to Tyrande, he added, “As well as some of your people. The very same ones you’ve branded traitors.” He canted his head to indicate Songleaf, who was still standing beside him.

“More lies.”

“It is no lie!” Songleaf insisted angrily. She cast her own scowl at the Gilnean princess, and to her credit she held it even when Maiev stormed between them.

“Why are you entertaining these outrageous claims?” she demanded of her leader. Tyrande turned her attention to the Warden, but showed no indication that she was bothered by the question or the insolence of her tone. “Kill him and be done with it!”

“I will kill him when I am satisfied with his answers. Not a moment sooner,” Tyrande said, snapping off the end of each word so sharply that they could have cut steel. Maiev, perhaps wisely, and certainly to the surprise of Saurfang if not the others present, backed down. He couldn’t help but wonder exactly what this strange transformation had done to Tyrande, and what it meant for those who would dare to challenge her.

“My brother took the king from Stormwind,” Songleaf explained before anyone else could stop her. “When King Greymane and Lord Saurfang—” She stumbled at the reaction that met her use of the respectful title. Saurfang might have told her not to bother, and to save herself the trouble, but it was too late now. “When they arrived to rescue him, they found themselves embroiled in an attack on our camp.” She showed no fear as she looked into the dark eyes of her high priestess. “He nearly died trying to help us,” she said quietly, perhaps recalling some part of the scene that he himself could not remember. Saurfang fought the urge to put a hand over his chest where the spear had pierced him. “The Horde soldiers showed no love for him then, and in the weeks since he came to live with us they have made numerous attempts to slay him. We—” She hesitated. “We use him as bait. They want to kill him,” she explained, perhaps a bit too plainly.

Another round of amused snickering followed, and Saurfang tried not to let his frustration show. She didn’t have to be quite so honest about it.

“And why is it that the Horde has turned on you, its beloved warlord?” Tyrande asked him. “Have you fallen out of favor with your Dark Lady?”

Saurfang pursed his lips. This line of questioning was coming dangerously close to details he would rather not discuss openly. “If we could speak—”

“We are speaking,” she interrupted sharply, and with dangerous finality. “Answer my question, or die where you stand.” A short nod saw a blade swiftly placed at his throat, held there by Maiev’s hand.

Saurfang nodded once, grudgingly, and steeled himself. He hated the words. Hated them, and spit them out with no attempt to disguise their sour taste. “I betrayed the Horde,” he said. “And turned my back on my warchief.”

That earned him a few stunned whispers and more than one exclamation of undisguised shock from those watching their exchange as it unfolded. Saurfang was reminded of the trial in Pandaria, in the Temple of the White Tiger. The cries of outrage and disbelief during the testimony of Perith Stormhoof. The Alliance had been just as surprised and disgusted with both Baine Bloodhoof and Jaina Proudmoore when they learned of the collusion between the two. He could only wonder what this crowd would think of his own indiscretions.

“Why.” Not a question; a demand.

He fought it, fought for every second he could avoid the words that meant so much to him and he _knew_ would mean nothing to these people. They couldn’t understand, and they wouldn’t want to. They would curse him for a fiend and give vile names to the thing that he held so dearly and so precious even now, even knowing it might possibly be the key to his own survival, that he could not conceive of parting with it. He could not bear to sully it by using it for something so base. Anduin might have told him he was being a fool, and he would probably be right.

“Take them to the shore. Let them look upon the fruits of their treachery before they die,” Tyrande instructed. Gauntleted hands with sharp fingers pulled at him, drawing him back, and Tyrande began to walk away. Saurfang struggled to free himself from Maiev’s cold grasp, but she was implacable.

Desperate, furious with himself and with Tyrande for backing him into this corner, he thought of Greymane’s question; of the words he knew Anduin had been too shy to say that morning. He thought of their last moments together on the bridge, stolen away by Sylvanas’ taunts. “Because I… care for him, more than I can express with mere words,” he said finally, the words forcing their way out of his throat, pushed up from his chest. He jerked his arm away as Maiev’s grip fell slack, and he stepped forward, moving closer to Tyrande. “Because I knew what Sylvanas was doing was wrong, and that I had dishonored the Horde and myself with my actions. And because I knew I could not stop her alone. He knew it, too, and we—” Found each other. Somehow. His chest heaved with the words he couldn’t say. He’d already said more than enough. Whether it would damn him or save him was now in Tyrande Whisperwind’s hands.

Tyrande had come about, her keen eyes once more fixed on his. Only now he could not bear to meet them. It wasn’t shame that forced his gaze to the empty space past her shoulder. He didn’t know what it was, though he might have guessed. His skin burned hot, and his heart was a hammer inside his chest, pounding so intensely that he thought everyone must have been able to hear it.

“Who?” she asked him carefully, as though she already knew, but she only needed him to confirm it.

He felt a gentle nudge from Songleaf’s elbow, and he turned to look at her, expecting anything but what it was he found. She was watching him with a soft expression, her faint smile warm and encouraging. To his great surprise he realized that he was heartened by it. Plainly, _proudly_ , he said, “Anduin.” And even as he said it, he realized that it was no wonder at all that he’d overlooked the changes in Anduin for so long. After all, he hadn’t seen the changes in himself.

Perhaps it was his smile that did it, or perhaps it was the way he held Tyrande’s stunned gaze as he spoke. Something seemed to break in the priestess, and she scowled at him. All the lightness and relief, all the acceptance he felt instantly evaporated, and the strange feeling beneath his feet—like sand receding in the wake of a wave—returned. The growing discontent from the elves and humans around them broke into open objections, demands to kill him, and offers to do it only for the honor of taking his head. Tyrande, standing amidst it all, seemed on the verge of granting them permission.

“You _dare?_ ” she hissed, baring her fangs. Her snarl was fierce, and the prominent muscles of her shoulders and neck flexed dangerously. “You dare to profane the king’s name to save your own wretched skin?! I had thought you could sink no lower, but I am not ashamed to admit that I was wrong. You will die for your lies, High Overlord Saurfang, and you will _not_ die well,” she promised. Her hand tightened on the weapon, and slowly she began to shift and ready herself for an attack.

“He’s—telling the truth.” A rough but familiar voice cut through the outraged cries from the crowd, speaking over whatever objections Songleaf was making on his behalf. Saurfang turned to find the half-dead specter of a familiar face, hunched over and grasping his middle as though his insides might spill out if he let go. Mathias Shaw came hobbling through the parting crowd to stand before Tyrande. He nearly collapsed for the effort; blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, and he coughed wetly. In seconds Tess Greymane had rushed to his side to prop him up, much as her father had once done for Saurfang.

“He’s telling the truth,” Shaw repeated when he could finally draw the breath to speak again. He turned his bruised face on Saurfang and offered him a faint nod. More acknowledgement than he had ever received from the spymaster. “About the elves, about the rescue, about the—the king.” He had the good grace to look away briefly, hiding it with a wince, and for that Saurfang was grateful. “I wouldn’t have believed it myself if I hadn’t been there for some of it. If I hadn’t seen how long your father,” he paused, turning to look up at Tess next to him, “spent trying to convince the king to change his mind. But he came around, eventually. Took some doing. Took Lord Saurfang—” He pointedly met Saurfang’s gaze as he used the respectful title, and ignored the murmur of discontent, “—coming this close to death before the king could save him.”

“And you witnessed this?” Tyrande asked, still clearly skeptical. “You saw the two of them…”

“Some of it. And Sylvanas saw it, too. In Theramore.”

Now Tyrande turned to Saurfang. “What were you doing in Theramore?” she asked.

Shaw answered before Saurfang could. “The Banshee Queen had called for a negotiation. King Anduin agreed.” He scowled, though it clearly caused him pain, and Saurfang was surprised to see so much revealed when he was usually so guarded and suspicious himself. A side effect of his considerable injuries, no doubt. “She only wanted him,” he said, canting his head in Saurfang’s direction. “For Darkshore.”

Tyrande’s dark eyes widened. “ _Darkshore?_ ”

Saurfang nodded. “A bargain supposedly struck in good faith, and betrayed just as swiftly.”

“Once she had him, she had no reason to keep her end of the deal,” Shaw continued. Weary from the effort, he waved a hand and said, “You know the rest.” He exchanged a brief look with the high priestess, and Saurfang could only assume that meant they were both aware of the ambush and subsequent destruction of the Alliance fleet. He couldn’t help but wonder what, if anything, they had tried to do about it.

He frowned at the strange look Tyrande fixed on him then—equal parts astonishment and confusion, with a lingering veneer of doubt that only a fool would ignore. He was not out of danger just yet, but for the moment his impending execution was no longer his chief concern. “How did you come to be here?” he asked the spymaster. The last he had seen of Shaw had been in Theramore, the morning he was handed over to the Horde. His fears that Anduin had accompanied the fleet to Darkshore abruptly returned with dizzying intensity. Shaw’s injuries would be healed if he had survived the attack, wouldn’t they? Unless… If he had only recently escaped the Horde himself…

Shaw must have sensed the connections Saurfang was making on his own, because he dared to risk letting go of Tess’ arm to make a soothing gesture, rushing to ease his concerns. “It’s a long story,” he said with a sigh. “And I think… it has something to do with why you’re here now,” he added, sharing a strange but meaningful look that somehow told Saurfang more than he could have expressed in words. _He knows_ , Saurfang realized, surprised and now fearful all over again. What did that mean? How bad had things become in his absence?

“I believe,” Tyrande said finally, making a gesture that sent Maiev and her Wardens back several steps, “the rest of this matter should be discussed in a more private location. Release them,” she commanded. Despite what he was certain were considerable reservations, the shackles came off, and Saurfang winced at the ache he had been too distracted to notice up to that point. When Tyrande turned to leave this time, it was clearly with the full expectation that he, Songleaf, and it appeared even Shaw and Tess Greymane, would follow.

 

* * *

 

 

Anduin was ensconced in a tent that had been erected for his private use. It was divided into two rooms, with one side serving as something of a makeshift war room, complete with a map table and writing desk. The large parchment currently spread out on the table’s surface was a map of Durotar.

“Anduin, it took the combined efforts of every army on Azeroth to breach the gates of Orgrimmar last time.” He met Anduin’s eyes and frowned. For once the boy’s blasted helm was off, and Genn could actually talk to him, face to face, one king—one _man_ to another. For all the good it was doing.

“Our weapons have improved greatly since my father’s reign.”

“Siege towers are no match for steel plates, my boy,” Genn reminded him. He was surprised he had to. No one knew better than Anduin Wrynn what the Horde had been capable of in the months leading up to the fall of Hellscream. “Garrosh may have been a brute, but he was no simpleton. This city is better defended than perhaps any other, even Stormwind.”

Anduin shrugged. The gesture was nearly lost beneath the heavy weight of his armor. “There are ways around that,” he said. But he wasn’t really saying anything. Only redirecting Genn’s concerns and making vague promises of victory when none was assured.

“She doesn’t need to leave Orgrimmar to turn your army away.”

He was bothered by the arrogant smirk that lifted the corner of Anduin’s mouth. “She’ll come,” was all he said.

“Do you understand what will happen if this assault doesn’t work? If you attempt to breach the gates and fail? You’ll have sacrificed your own army, a sizable portion of the Kul Tiran forces, and left Stormwind vulnerable to a counterattack that we will not have the manpower to stop.” Genn tried to fight the urge to grab Anduin by the shoulders and shake him. What was _happening_ to him? “Are you prepared for that?”

Anduin tracked Genn’s movements with his cold gaze as the older king grumbled and shifted and tried desperately to bite his tongue. “Our soldiers knew what they were signing up for,” he said simply.

“You are their _king_ , Anduin. They trust you to make wise choices on their behalf.” Genn shook his head. “And this,” he made a gesture in the direction of the camp outside, “is not a wise choice. I will keep silent no longer. If you value my counsel, if you have any trust in the wisdom I have shared with you, you will heed me now. Turn back.”

Anduin did not answer immediately, and Genn thought perhaps he wouldn’t say anything at all. But then he drew a deep breath and said, “I trust that you have the Alliance’s best interests at heart.” He stood and made a half circuit of the map table. His hand came to rest on a large, black X, drawn messily in ink upon the northern gate of Orgrimmar. “And… I think I owe you an apology.”

A weight tumbled from Genn’s shoulders when he heard those words, and he perked up, turning to regard Anduin hopefully. Doubt still tugged at him from somewhere in the back of his mind, but he wanted so much to believe that this would be the turning point; that Anduin would pull back from the edge of whatever dark chasm he had found within himself. “You do?” Genn asked, attempting to betray nothing of the conflicting emotions that plagued him in that moment.

“I’ve kept you in the dark, Genn. An unfortunate necessity. But once Orgrimmar has been dealt with, once we’ve returned home, I’ll tell you everything.” He smiled, but it was not Anduin’s smile. It was the smile of a liar who knew he’d been caught, and who didn’t care.

Genn could tell there was something else hidden behind those words. Something Anduin was only hinting at, and it was infuriating. “And I’m meant to simply trust that you know what you’re doing?” He shook his head. “No, Anduin. No more of this… empty speech. I thought perhaps Saurfang’s death had driven you to some darker place you didn’t understand, couldn’t navigate on your own. I’ve tried to guide you, but you won’t let me. I know you loved him—”

“ _This isn’t about him!_ ”

“Stop lying to me, Anduin!” He struggled to keep his voice down, to keep others outside from overhearing their argument. “If this isn’t about Saurfang,” he continued, “if this isn’t some terrible heartache you’ve chosen to share with the rest of Azeroth, then tell me now what it is. Tell me so that I can _help you!_ ”

Anduin’s blue eyes were thin slivers of ice above the flush that darkened his cheeks. He was furious, and he was fighting it just like Genn. It would have been a lie to say that seeing any sort of emotion in the boy besides cold indifference was a relief, but it didn’t change the urgency of the situation. “We break camp at dawn,” Anduin said, turning away to study the map. “I won’t punish you if you choose to remain here, or return to the ships.”

“Why do you keep pushing me away? Do you really believe I’ll ever turn my back on you?” Genn shook his head. “Not so long as I draw breath, my boy.”

A host of emotions crossed Anduin’s face in alarming succession, and Genn could only be certain that they had started with fear. _Fear of what?_ What wasn’t Anduin telling him? He took a step forward, but a sharp, sidelong look stopped him in his tracks. Anduin lay his gloved hands on the edges of the table and set his gaze upon its surface, burning intensely over an angry scowl. “Make your choice, Genn,” he said. A warning. “Stand beside me or at my back. But do not get in my way.”

 

* * *

 

  
“You know,” Shaw said once they were mostly alone. The princess had gone to confer with another human woman, and Tyrande was speaking softly to a luminous grey and white owl. Songleaf was sitting off to the side on the stump of a tree, her arms wrapped around her middle. Given all that had happened, Saurfang couldn’t say he was surprised that she had finally reached her own breaking point. “You know something is wrong with him.”

He could only mean Anduin, of course. “It must be worse than I feared if you know about it,” he answered, turning back to the spymaster.

“It’s my job to know—” Shaw winced and drew in a sharp breath, and for a moment Saurfang wasn’t certain he would continue. Several seconds passed, and the deep furrow in his brow eased. Finally he took a breath and let it out again, letting the worst of the pain go with it, it seemed. “If I don’t notice when the king isn’t himself, it’s time to find a new spymaster,” Shaw said matter-of-factly. “I’d been aware of it for weeks leading up to your meeting with the warchief,” he admitted. When he saw Saurfang’s eyes widen he waved a hand. “Under different circumstances I might not have brushed it aside so easily. Call it complacency.” He grimaced. “What’s your excuse?”

Saurfang could only shrug and nod at that. He had noticed as well, but like Shaw and Greymane, he had wanted to believe it was only the lingering effects of the abduction. What fools they’d been. “Now?”

“After you… well, _died_ , he took a turn for the worse. A very abrupt, very troubling turn. Started giving orders that made no sense, took on a fleet from Kul Tiras with some rather questionable crew. He’s spent the last month and a half raiding Horde towns and wiping them off the map.” His green eyes met Saurfang’s brown, and he nodded. “Yes, it’s as bad as you think. Maybe worse. I’m not sure I want to tell you some of the things he’s done. Sending me on a suicide mission past the Horde blockade is just a small part of it. If you’d told me two months ago that Anduin Wrynn was capable of what he’s been doing lately, I’d probably slit your throat in your sleep for the hell of it. But now…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Greymane’s been keeping at him, trying to talk him back down from the edge, but it was doing no good the last time I saw either of them. And he doesn’t know.”

Saurfang was seated on a small rock, looking down on Shaw, who had been deposited on a collection of soft sleeping furs. He didn’t appear to be any better off for it. “Doesn’t know what?” he asked, watching Shaw’s every move carefully. The man was being uncharacteristically forthcoming, but it would be foolish to assume that he was sharing anything more than he wished to, and very carefully, at that. Even injured he was still every inch a spy.

Shaw grunted through another wave of pain, and doubled over until his forehead was nearly resting on his knees. Into the hollow space between his folded legs he said, “He doesn’t know what the king found.”

 

* * *

 

 

It had quickly become clear, after the army began its march on Durotar, that Genn was no longer welcome at Anduin’s side. The king had ridden ahead, at the front of the advancing soldiers. Genn’s place had always been among his own people, but it seemed they were no longer welcome at the king’s right flank. And so Genn rode in the back, surrounded by the other Gilnean footmen, choking on the dust of the hundreds of men and women who marched across the arid earth ahead of them. As punishments go it wasn’t the worst he had expected for his insubordination, but it was infuriating.

They met no resistance on the journey to the city gates, and he had not expected that they would. Sylvanas had nothing to gain by sending her soldiers out to meet them. Orgrimmar was a fortress, it was designed to be, even before Hellscream had fortified its walls with iron reinforcements that could withstand even a dragon’s fury. Her archers could simply stand atop its battlements and rain death down on the soldiers below. Her mages could pick them off one by one and freeze their front lines. According to Shaw’s spies, most of the city’s inhabitants lived in alleyways and valleys that could not be reached by even the most generous aim of a siege tower, and Anduin had to know that. If Sylvanas did give a damn about the people of Orgrimmar, she had no need to fear for their safety from a frontal assault. Frankly speaking, _suicide_ was a generous description of this strategy.

Anduin’s tent had once more been erected for his use, well guarded and far from the blockade that seemed to permanently surround the front of the city. A blockade, Genn recalled, that was named for Saurfang’s late son. As he realized that, regret washed over him and added its own weight to his already burdened shoulders. He had failed Saurfang, failed to save his life, but he would not fail Anduin. If he could do nothing else to repay the orc for what he’d done, for Genn, for the Alliance, and for Anduin himself, he could at least do that much.

Perhaps foolishly, Genn had decided to make one final attempt to plead with Anduin to reconsider this assault. No one wished to see the Banshee Queen dead more than he, but not at the cost of the Alliance itself. Not at the cost of Anduin’s life, which he was beginning to suspect might be the price Anduin had deemed acceptable to pay for victory. That thought terrified him, to say nothing of the guilt he felt over his own part in possibly encouraging such extreme measures. He still wasn’t entirely convinced that was the sum of his plan, but it would certainly be the outcome if he went through with this attack.

But the Kul Tiran guards did not step aside when he approached the tent. They did not even look him in the eye when they denied him entry with their sharply crossed halberds. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

“His Majesty is not to be disturbed before the battle,” one of the guards answered curtly. Genn recognized him from the raiding party; one of the men who had been standing with Anduin when they burned the bodies of the Horde killed in the village.

“I need to speak with him,” he insisted.

“We have our orders.”

Not even so much as a courteous acknowledgement of his station. Impropriety on the part of some gutter trash Kul Tiran was the least of his worries at the moment, but Genn found himself furious for reasons he could not quite articulate. Something about these men sat wrong with him. Very wrong. He glared at the Kul Tiran for a few seconds longer, at war with his own sense of dignity over a trivial bit of disrespect.

Then he heard a quiet sound behind him—boots crunching the dry dirt beneath their feet—and turned to find a soldier approaching. One of their own. “Major,” Genn said.

The major bowed neatly. “I’ve brought a message for the king from Sky Admiral Rogers.”

The guards, to Genn’s shock and great aggravation, immediately stepped aside to let him pass. He watched, mouth agape, as the major disappeared into the tent, and the guards returned to their previous positions. “Now, see here—” he started, but a bit of conversation from within floated into his keen ears past the noise of the camp outside. He caught the words _ready to deploy_ , and _Azshara_ , of all things. With a frown he realized, much to his chagrin, that those four words were more information than he had managed to pull from Anduin in weeks. He decided then that if he could not make it past Anduin’s Kul Tiran thugs, he would simply have to find another way to insinuate himself into the king’s plans.

“Well,” he said, “it seems His Majesty has other matters to tend to now.” He turned his sneer into a smile, or at least some facsimile of one. “ _Gentlemen_ ,” he muttered.

It was a large tent, and there was no conceivable way for the guards to see him once he had rounded the corner, but nevertheless Genn took the long way around. He wanted it to appear as though he had gone in another direction entirely. Let them think they had sent him scurrying off with his tail between his legs.

Genn cursed himself. Saurfang had been dead for well over a month and he was still recalling the orc’s blasted dog jokes.

Once he had reached the back side of the tent, where only the occasional Alliance guard would see him lingering some ten or fifteen feet away, he strained to pick out the sounds from within. With the din of the camp more distant, muffled by the thick fabric walls of the tent between them, he could pinpoint Anduin’s voice much more easily.

 _“See to it your men understand my orders,”_ Anduin said. Genn was saddened to find that he was no kinder to his own loyal soldiers. _“Desertion will not be tolerated.”_

Desertion? What in the Light’s name was he planning that he feared the soldiers might run?

_“You needn’t worry, Your Majesty. I’ll deal with any such cowardice personally, and without hesitation. You have my word.”_

_“Good. The Horde threat ends today, Major. The Banshee Queen will pay for her crimes, and the Alliance must be willing to demand that cost with blood if necessary.”_

_“Sir.”_

Genn shook his head. This banner-waving, chest-thumping nonsense was far removed from Anduin’s typical considerate approach to every engagement. Making threats to forestall desertion? Genn himself had described any attack as a suicide mission, but surely Anduin wasn’t actually planning to needlessly throw his soldiers up against the gates of Orgrimmar.

 _“Sylvanas will expect us to hold here and wait for dawn. To maximize the daylight for fighting, as we did at Lordaeron. I intend to take her by surprise and move before sunset. Send this with your swiftest gryphon when you leave here,”_ Anduin said, and Genn heard him pass a scroll into the major’s hands. _“Tell no one of your orders.”_

That was unfortunate; Genn could hear a great deal, but he could not divine the contents of such a scroll from sound alone.

 _“My king,”_ the major started, for the first time sounding uncertain of whatever these orders entailed. _“Are you certain—”_

 _“You know what she’s done, Major Hensley. To Teldrassil, to Darkshore, to your comrades. What she would do to your friends and loved ones. Would you see your family raised as Forsaken to serve her, all for a few extra hours of sleep? This is the_ only _way.”_ He heard Anduin’s armor as he moved, and thought perhaps he had put a hand on the major’s shoulder. A friendly, reassuring touch. Manipulation. _“If I could end this war without dirtying your hands or mine, I would. I would gladly give my life to stop her. I will give this, too.”_

He could not hear the major’s reply, but with no more objections forthcoming, it seemed clear to Genn that Hensley had agreed. Perhaps grudgingly, but he accepted his king’s assurance nevertheless. Whatever it was he was being asked to do must have weighed heavily on his mind for it to make him question his orders at the last second like this.

 _“It won’t… touch our own men, will it?”_ he asked timidly. As though he feared the answer.

There was something strange about the conversation, something just out of reach that Genn could only barely sense was not as it should be. Anduin hadn’t been himself for some time, but there was more to it than that, and now he realized it was here, too, in his conversation with the major. Something he was leaving out, or even carefully avoiding. It was—

 _“Have faith in me,”_ Anduin admonished the major in a tone that might have passed for soothing from anyone else. But there was nothing soothing about the way the words seemed to insist upon obedience.

Genn knew then. He understood what it was that had bothered him for so long. What was missing from every conversation he’d had with Anduin for weeks, perhaps longer.

He never once mentioned the Light.

_“I do, Your Majesty.”_

_“Then trust that only Sylvanas and those who serve her need choke on her foul poison.”_

Genn let out a horrified gasp. The dry desert air burned his throat, the knowledge of what Anduin intended to do choking him just as surely as the next breath he couldn’t bring himself to take. The certainty in their victory had nothing to do with the army at the gates, or the weapons they could bring to bear against the city walls. Suddenly it was all so terribly clear, and the pieces fit together to form a terrible, unthinkable picture. The Horde towns, the apothecaries… _the barrels_.

 

* * *

 

 

“I find myself struggling to believe it, and yet I must accept what you have told me here today. You and the king…” Tyrande shook her head slowly. “If I am to be honest, I find that easier to accept than the Spymaster’s assurances you willingly gave your life to return this land to my people. You understand that this does not undo the harm you have done. Nor does it bring back the lives that were lost. There is no going back to a place of peace,” she said.

Saurfang understood, and what’s more, he accepted it without question. He nodded. “I will answer for my actions once we’ve dealt with this,” he offered. “If you will wait for your justice.” That was only fair, after all; Anduin's life for his. He could make that trade and go to his death easily.

Tyrande accepted with a nod of her own. “It seems the Alliance yet has a use for you, High Overlord. Your offer is agreeable, provided you keep your part of it.” She turned then to Shaw. “What is this I hear of some affliction befalling the king?” Her dark eyes narrowed into shadowy slits that seemed to absorb what little light there was in the small glade. She shot Saurfang a sidelong glare that could have cut steel. “Your whispers did not go unnoticed. Never think yourselves so clever that you can outsmart me.”

A lesson he was learning with each passing moment. Saurfang, who had taken a seat opposite the priestess, drew in a deep breath. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the artifact, setting it in the dirt between them. Over his shoulder he heard Tess Greymane make a curious sound. She and the woman he had learned was named Lorna Crowley watched the proceedings, but kept their comments to themselves. Although he was certain Tyrande would have readily welcomed their input had they any to give.

“The druid Fen Songleaf placed this item on the king when he took him captive and brought him here, to Darkshore. It severed his connection to the Light while it was in contact with his body,” Saurfang explained.

“You know what this is,” she said. Not a question, exactly, but it left him with the distinct impression that she knew it herself. Perhaps even better than he did.

“I do. I saw similar objects in Northrend. Not quite the same, but close enough that I can say with certainty now the changes I saw in Anduin were not the result of his abduction. He was… speaking strange words in his sleep,” he said, and ignored the distressed look that crossed Tyrande’s face. Of all the opinions she held regarding him, those regarding his relationship with Anduin struck him as the least important at the moment. “He became unreasonable, no longer trusted his own guards, and at times refused both my council and Greymane’s.”

“Where did the druid Songleaf procure such an item?” she asked. She reached for it, letting her fingertips linger over the glassy coil that wound around its length.

“I had thought he took it from Darnassus,” Miren Songleaf said, speaking up for the first time since they had convened in the relatively private space. “But then we encountered a group of cultists—”

“Cultists!” Tyrande exclaimed. “The Twilight’s Hammer, in Darkshore?”

Songleaf nodded. “Items in their camp and on their robes bore the same strange symbol, and they knew him,” she said, pointing to Saurfang. “Knew the king.”

“It is hardly a unreasonable to imagine such a foul and insidious group would know of the king of Stormwind. What else did you learn?”

“We captured one,” Saurfang told her. “Escaping a Horde attack through our camp.” He swallowed back the foul taste that seemed to linger on his tongue at the thought of what the cultist had said to him. What it had to mean. “ _‘You have lost him,’_ he said. He meant Anduin.”

“Clearly the Twilight’s Hammer had a hand, however limited, in these schemes.” Tyrande cast a suspicious look in Songleaf’s direction. “And you say you knew nothing of your brother’s plans?”

“Only his intention to bring the king to Darkshore, to make him see for himself what had become of our home. I never thought he would do it,” she added in a whisper. There was a great deal of sadness in that confession, and Saurfang pitied her. It seemed as though she would never escape the shadow of her brother’s misdeeds. Though she was perhaps fortunate that they were not her own, at least.

“This seems auspiciously timed,” Tyrande mused, tapping her lower lip with one graceful finger. “Both this news regarding the king and your arrival, Spymaster.”

“Such as it was,” Shaw said with a frown. He sat perfectly still while one of Tyrande’s priestesses healed him with her magic. It was slow going, and Saurfang imagined it was only one of many sessions he had suffered through since reaching Darkshore. “It certainly seems as though things are coming together rather neatly.”

“Rather more than you may know, I fear. Were you aware of the contents of the missive you carried for the king?” she asked.

Shaw shook his head very carefully. “I don’t make it a habit of breaking royal seals,” he said. “The king tells me what I need to know.” He hissed at the priestess’ touch. “Usually. Anything else I find out for myself.”

She looked to Saurfang. Her lips were pressed in a thin, flat line. “He requires our forces in battle. He intends to carry out an attack,” she said. “On Orgrimmar.”

Saurfang tried to process the words, but they made no sense. There was a very good reason even Varian Wrynn had only ever dared to attack Orgrimmar once, and then only with the support of most of the Horde in addition to his own forces. Even if something sinister was influencing Anduin’s actions, guiding him for some terrible purpose, all it stood to gain from such an attack was his swift death before the city gates. Orgrimmar could withstand a siege for far longer than Anduin could afford to keep an army at its walls.

Shaw abruptly cursed under his breath. He waved away the priestess’ hands and tried to stand, but Tess came behind him and gently pushed him back down. “You’re in no shape to go leaping about,” she reminded him. “You’ve still got three broken ribs.”

“And a few more holes in me than I had two days ago. But none of that matters,” he said. “I know what he’s going to do.” He tried again to stand, but in his condition he was no match for the Gilnean princess. “We have to stop it,” he insisted. Saurfang had never seen him so agitated.

“Stop what?” Tyrande asked. “What is it the king intends to do?”

“I knew he’d use it,” the spymaster ground out around clenched teeth. He was shaking from the pain. “I just didn’t know where.”

Saurfang added his own hand to Tess’ attempts to keep Shaw from rising, effectively pinning him in place. “Use _what?_ ” he demanded, and this time he made no attempt to stop the growl that accompanied his question.

The haunted look in Shaw’s eyes was nearly as shocking as his answer.

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Blight?!_ ” Genn hissed, horrified by the word even as it slithered off his tongue. Memories of Gilneas bathed in a dreadful green mist, his people choking, dying, their bodies corroding before his very eyes as Sylvanas and her abominations unleashed their vile plague on his home. He had barreled past the Kul Tiran guards outside the tent and nearly transformed when they dared to lay hands on him. Anduin, making what was perhaps the first wise decision in a very long time, instead sent them away, allowing Genn to remain where he was. “You can’t be serious!”

Anduin dismissed the major as well, and the man had the good sense to leave quickly. “Welcome, Genn. And I am very serious,” he said. “I told you I would address the Banshee Queen’s crimes in a manner that she could understand.” He held his arms out, his palms up. “Is this not the culmination of that promise?”

“It’s madness, that’s what it is! You cannot use the Forsaken Blight, not here, not ever! What of your own men? There are Alliance soldiers out there, women and men who are willing to fight and die for you if need be! If you attempt to use it on their army you will kill your own people!”

“I have no intention of using it on their army,” Anduin said plainly. “I assume you were eavesdropping out there. Surely you know something of my plans by now.”

Dread abruptly seized Genn’s chest, and he tried to process the words even as he understood the truth of the atrocity Anduin was planning. He shook his head. “No…”

“Our airships will disperse the Blight over the city,” Anduin explained, as though casually describing the finer details of a formal dinner. Using objects on the table, he constructed a crude diagram of the city, as well as what would eventually be the two armies out in front. “They will begin at the rear gate, preventing anyone escaping into Azshara. If Shaw has done his job, Tyrande and her people should be waiting on the western bank of the Southfury River. As the ships move south, the Blight will drive the civilians out to the main gate. It will be chaos. The Horde soldiers will find their lines broken by their own people.” He used the back of his hand to knock over the candle that had been standing in for the Horde. “It should be simple to wipe them out then.”

Genn could barely find the words to describe his horror. And Anduin was so _calm_ about it, so cold in his description of civilians fleeing for their lives, right onto the waiting blades of his own men. There would be children among them, if they were lucky enough to escape the gas. For one single, terrible moment, he wondered if this was how Jaina and Uther had felt. “You can’t do this, any of it!” he shouted. He no longer cared who would overhear, or how treasonous his objections might be. “You’re talking about destroying an entire city! Tens of thousands will die!”

“That is the point of a war.”

“No,” Genn shook his head, “not this war. Not a war you started to _save lives_ , Anduin. Don’t you hear yourself? Don’t you see what you’re becoming?”

Anduin slammed his gauntleted fist on the table. The sound was jarring even within the soft walls of the tent. “I _see_ everything!” he spat viciously. “And right now what I see before me is a coward. A man afraid to do what is necessary to defeat his enemy.”

“This is not how the Alliance wages war!”

“No, it isn’t! It’s how _I_ wage war!” Anduin reached for his helm and pushed it down onto his head. Once more only the empty gaze of the lion remained. “You can return to Stormwind if you don’t have the stomach for that. Crawl back under your bed and hide.”

Genn fought the snarl that was building in the back of his throat. He did not suffer such talk lightly, not even from those who mattered most to him. “Watch your tongue, boy,” he growled. “I have been fighting wars since before you were born.”

“And losing them for nearly as long, I recall.”

The shock at such a comment coming from _Anduin_ of all people left Genn scrambling to follow as Anduin strode from the tent, taking their argument out into the blistering Durotar sun. No one paid them any mind, not at first. It was when Genn reached for Anduin’s arm and pulled him back roughly that some of the soldiers took notice. “I won’t let you do this,” he promised, though it hurt him to say it. “I’ll stop you if I have to.”

Some of the soldiers, most of them Kul Tiran, had begun to gather at the signs of the confrontation brewing between the two kings. Their distinctive dull silver armor and Alliance tabards seemed strangely out of place, almost farcical, and Genn couldn’t help but see them from the corner of his eye as they moved in. Before he knew it a loose circle had formed around them, and very few of the faces in it were familiar to him.

“You would commit treason?” Anduin asked. “You, Genn?”

“To prevent you from doing something I _know_ you would never do. This isn’t you, Anduin.”

“No,” Anduin agreed, “it isn’t. It’s more like you. And now you’ve lost your taste for doing what is necessary.”

“I am doing what is right!” He fought his own transformation, battling with every part of his being to keep from making things worse than they already were. Before him Anduin seemed utterly unaffected by any of what had been said, nor did he appear worried that Genn might actually transform and make good on his threat to intervene. “Stop this,” Genn insisted, “right now! Before you’ve gone too far!”

“I will stop it,” Anduin assured him. His tone and his unblinking stare were grim. To the gathered soldiers he simply said, “Take him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise you this pain will be worth it.
> 
> I formally put forth the name Lionfang for this ship please mail any objections via SASE.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NB: I will only accept angry mail in MLA format.

His hands were not truly his own, had not been for some time, and yet they moved when and how he willed them. They were as strong and sure as ever. Perhaps stronger even than that. Like himself, they had no greater purpose than to serve. To carry out the will of the one whose presence filled his every thought. He had become a devastating weapon; an instrument, to be pointed at the enemy and loosed like an arrow, deadly in purpose and precise in his aim. He would remake the world if so commanded, slay those who would keep him from fulfilling his purpose, and do it all gladly. _Gratefully_. He served, and would forever serve. Loyal and undying.

 _Ah, and you’ve served so well. But is that what_ you _wish?_

The voice floated to his mind, so like his own that for a moment he thought perhaps he had imagined it. A nebulous memory from a life so far behind him it may as well have never existed. Yet he nevertheless considered the strange question carefully. Wish? He had no wishes of his own, save to serve. No desires to tempt or distract. He did not need them.

_There was a time you wanted more, was there not? More than this. More than—_

No, he had never…

_Yes. Look for yourself. See what it is you have become._

He felt a strange sensation come over him, like a dense fog thinning within his own mind. It revealed to him a truth he had been too blind to see: that he lived in but a small, squalid corner, shackled and bent to a will that wasn’t his own. He could sense something more beyond the mist— _true_ freedom, he realized—and it called to him. Beckoned to him. Waving like a languid frond caught in the flow of a current he could not perceive. It pulled him and he wanted nothing more than to answer its siren’s call. But though the fog that bound him was weaker, it had not yet receded entirely. It held him in its grasp, and he knew that struggling would only tighten its hold. He would never escape. Not alone.

_I can grant you what it is you desire._

Could—

Could he trust…? He had never trusted before; had never been given the choice.

 _Serve me, and I will set you free. I will make you_ truly _whole. Your mind will be your own, your will, your thoughts, will be your own. It is within my power to grant you this, if you only ask._

He hesitated, and felt a spark of irritation answer his uncertainty. It frightened him. The mere sense of it alone spoke of a power far greater than he could perceive. Far beyond the measure of the sort that held him in its thrall even now. Terrifying and grand and more than capable of fulfilling such a promise. More than capable of destroying him on a whim, as well. Yet the offer stood, and his options were clear. He could remain as he was, bound and broken, compelled to serve for all his days. Denied even the emptiness of oblivion.

Or he could _choose_. Choose, for the first time in so long he held no memory of the moment he lost the will to do so of his own accord.

In the end it was a rather simple matter, really.

Parting lips that had known only cruel laughter and vile disdain for far too long, he spoke aloud, and told the strange and powerful voice in his mind what it was he desired, knowing it could mean destruction as easily as deliverance.

“ _Please,_ ” Nathanos whispered.

 

* * *

 

 

The urge to launch an arrow into the well-ordered ranks below was… considerable.

Sylvanas looked on from atop the wall, standing above the great gates of Orgrimmar, a sneer curling the top of her lip. Her fingers clenched the grip of her bone-and-sinew bow. Archers lined the wall beside her; trolls, primarily, though some were her own Forsaken. They stood ready in the molten glow of the Durotar afternoon. No worse for wear despite the blistering heat that seemed to lick its way skyward along the face of the iron wall. Not for the first time she silently cursed Garrosh Hellscream. Every surface, every facade, every tower and tile bore his touch, and served as a reminder of his short but brutal reign as warchief. It infuriated her.

She hated Orgrimmar.

“What have they done?” she asked.

“Nothing, Warchief,” the troll beside her answered. “They got into formation maybe an hour ago, but they done nothing since. The Alliance king… he just be standin’ there.”

Anduin Wrynn had brought an army to her door, and it was, to her private surprise, large enough to pose a threat—if she made the foolish choice to open the gates and send her soldiers out to meet them. By necessity a sizable chunk of her own forces had been stationed elsewhere, with the nearest in Darkshore. Close enough to shorten the supply lines for a lengthy stay, but far enough that she could not recall them quickly. Not if Wrynn had some trick up his sleeve that she hadn’t anticipated.

She could see the little golden whelp from her position high up on the wall. His neck was craned, his helm tilted upward. He was watching her. A well-aimed arrow could slip between the plates that protected his neck and sever an artery before he had the opportunity to flinch. She could end the war with one shot. Her fingers twitched in anticipation of the kill. If she’d had blood left in her body it would have been pounding in her ears, an insistent need to raise her weapon and draw. She could almost… _almost_ recall what it felt like. How that sensation of living in the fraction of a moment felt, as her muscles tensed and her heart beat its wild rhythm. Not fear, but _excitement_. She had loved it all, from the creak of the bowstring to the hot slice of the fletching as it cut the air so close she could feel it.

Now it was only an echo. A faint but fading memory of a feeling she’d once had, long ago. And, like Orgrimmar’s simmering steel plates, she hated Anduin Wrynn even more for making her recall it.

“Let them stand there in the sun until their own armor becomes their enemy,” she spat, turning on her heel and heading for the steps down into the wall.

“But, Warchief—”

Sylvanas ignored the troll’s objections. She had better things to do with her time than entertain a boy’s game of war.

Nathanos was at her side instantly. “My lady, perhaps it would be wise to reconsider. After all, if the boy king cannot slake his lust for vengeance on Orgrimmar—”

“He would have no better luck laying siege to Thunder Bluff, or Silvermoon.” She laughed. “Let him march his army across the Plaguelands. He’ll be lucky if a third of them survive to reach Quel’Thalas.”

“A more than fair assessment of his current options. However, I wonder if the tauren and orcs who hold the Crossroads and the trolls still inhabiting the Echo Isles will agree,” he urged. “Razor Hill is but a short march south of here. Barely that, for so large an army. The Horde has already lost nearly a half dozen villages to this boy’s wrath, with more reports of destruction arriving every day. A swift response from their warchief might reinforce wavering loyalties”

A half dozen meaningless backwater dung heaps, filled with slack-jawed orc farmers and the rest of the dregs of Horde society. Hardly a great loss. There were but a handful of locations that lay outside Orgrimmar which she considered strategically valuable, and Nathanos had assured her that the naive young king, in his violent quest for revenge, had somehow missed them all. Though she was certain he would not have known what it was he’d managed to stumble across even if he hadn’t.

Sylvanas eyed Nathanos coolly. He was right, of course. Whatever she thought of those settlements beyond the walls of the city, they were the homes of those who would slay her enemies. “You are suggesting that I might further alienate our allies if I hide within the walls of Orgrimmar while the enemy challenges from without. That they would think me a coward,” she sneered, offering no indication that she had seen the wisdom of his words. Although she had been thrilled by the success of her efforts to undermine Anduin Wrynn’s usually unshakable will, the response had been somewhat more aggressive than she’d anticipated. The boy was behaving rashly, but he was no helpless cub caught in a snare of his own grief, as she had intended. Instead he was thrashing, clawing wildly at everything within reach. Evidently that reach was still much greater than she had anticipated. It was entirely conceivable that he might take more than his own allies down with him before the end. Maintaining the capital strongholds of the Horde and those locations that held her particular interest could not be her only priority in that case.

And the simple fact was that she had the clear advantage, regardless of who and what Anduin Wrynn had brought with him. Her swiftest batriders had already been dispatched to Darkshore three days before to recall a sizable portion of the Horde forces stationed there. With much of Ashenvale left in ruin by Saurfang’s opening salvo against the night elves, there would be little opposition to their swift return. If she could just keep the little lion busy long enough, draw out this encounter, she might find herself in a position to crush the Alliance army between her own soldiers and the shores of the Great Sea. The scavengers could have whatever she did not take for herself.

“Fortunate for you that I know you better,” she reminded him. His relief was restrained, but clear to her well-trained eye, familiar with every subtle tic and shift in his features as she was. She softened her normally hard gaze and swept her fingertips beneath his chin. “And that you know _me_.”

Nathanos inclined his head respectfully. “Indeed.”

Above all the other creatures that crawled about the surface of the world, so eager to exploit whatever weaknesses they could for their own insignificant gain, she trusted Nathanos. Not because he had proven his loyalty, or because he, in whatever twisted way was left to him, cared for her. No. She trusted Nathanos Blightcaller because she _knew_ that his loyalty was assured.

Nathanos, clever, quick, and deadly, simply was not capable of deceiving her. “Very well,” she said, “gather your troops. But do not send them out immediately. Have them gather at the gate to await my signal.” She recalled how Anduin Wrynn had risked his life in Arathi simply to speak with her. How eager he had been to exchange words with his enemy in the name of _hope_. The fool.

Nathanos bowed deeply. The smile on his face never quite reaching his eyes. “As you command,” he muttered, “my queen.”

 

  
It was no cooler at the base of the wall, with the shadow of the gate looming over her like a merciful eclipse. Sylvanas felt the roiling heat as it billowed about, a living thing that twined and tightened around her, and she staunchly ignored it. Anduin Wrynn was standing in the center of the open ground before the blockade. Behind him, far enough to pose no direct threat, but close enough to make their numbers clear from a casual glance, stood his waiting army.

She rode to meet her enemy atop an armored skeletal steed. The beast’s bones scraped and clicked as it ambled down the dusty road. At any other time the way into Orgrimmar would be teeming with activity; tradesmen and travelers, soldiers, and those local to the city itself, to name a few. Now it was empty. Red-orange dust had long since filled in the tracks left by those who had taken shelter within the safety of the massive walls. For the silence that surrounded her, Orgrimmar may as well have been an empty ruin.

“Little Lion,” she purred upon reaching the king of Stormwind. She dismounted and took the leather reins in one hand. Varian Wrynn’s sword caught the afternoon sun as she approached, but no point of light shone in its blade as it had at Lordaeron. Curious, but hardly cause for concern. Despite knowing that he was armed, she herself had not bothered to carry her bow. Anduin Wrynn was as much a fool as the sentimental old soldier he had taken to his bed. Her encounter with him in the Arathi Highlands and his actions since had proved that much. His own misguided sense of honor was both her shield _and_ her weapon. Not, she reflected with a smirk, that she needed either to kill him. “You’ve come bearing gifts, I see.” She indicated the army standing at the ready well behind him. Not so large as the force he had brought to bear against her at the ruins of Lordaeron, but by no means insignificant.

He did not respond. He remained, to her keen eyes, so unearthly still as to be somewhat unnerving. Living beings, humans especially, moved. Constantly. They breathed, they swayed, they shifted from one foot to the other. Beneath his heavy armor Anduin Wrynn may as well have been one of her Forsaken. Only the tightening of his fingers around the leather grip of his father’s sword showed any indication of the boy within.

There was something strange at work here. Something… wrong. Sylvanas quickly scanned the ranks of the soldiers in the distance, but no familiar shapes caught her eye. No spectacle of fur dressed in a man’s coat, nor the furious eyes of her treacherous sisters. Missing too were the young king’s other allies and agents; his spymaster, the wretched prophet, and the Lady Jaina chief among them. “Tell me,” she continued, still distracted by the apparent lack of anyone who meant anything to Anduin Wrynn among his soldiers. “Where is your faithful hound, Your Majesty?” The others she might have expected, for the war between the Horde and the Alliance raged on more than just the doorstep of Orgrimmar.

But Greymane’s absence was notable, and potentially troubling. Did it mean there was a second wave hidden elsewhere? Did they intend to attack by sea, or by air? She had placed Nathanos in command of the city’s defenses, and he had returned with news of clear skies to the horizon. An attack by sea would strengthen their numbers in Durotar, but pose no greater threat to Orgrimmar itself than what was already present. Her sharp mind reeled with the possibilities of what this strange vacancy in the young king’s forces might indicate, and she did not like it.

“Is he lying in wait for the opportune moment?” she asked, careful not to betray her suspicions. “Or have you finally muzzled him as he should have—”

With one abrupt and powerful swing of his sword, Anduin Wrynn carved the air so close that Sylvanas could hear the keen hiss of the blade as it sailed past her ears. There had been no warning, no sign he had any intention of attacking. She heard and _felt_ the terrible crack of bone and the ghostly squeal of the skeletal steed as its body reared back, head cleanly severed at the neck. Its bones began to crack and fall to pieces as the energy sustaining its reanimation faded, and in that very same moment utter chaos erupted around her. She heard shouting over her shoulder, coming from up high on the wall, and before her the roar of an advancing army as countless soldiers poured forth like the foam of a breaking wave. Rifles fired, and arrows sang a familiar song as they soared past. Magic scorched the air and lightning crackled. The sounds filled her ears in a glorious rush, and in the cacophony she watched as Anduin Wrynn raised his sword a second time.

 _So,_ she thought, grinning as she gathered her own power to unleash upon him like a furious gale, _the lion has his teeth_ and _his claws_.

She was going to enjoy this.

 

* * *

 

 

Mages, archers, and shaman hurled death with terrifying accuracy from atop the wall, picking off those unfortunate enemies who strayed too close. Behind the Alliance lines, two siege towers rained destruction down upon the city. A sea of clashing blue and red lay between. And in the middle of it all, bathed in darkness, was the unmistakable shape of Sylvanas Windrunner. That was where he would find Anduin.

They had landed on the eastern bank of the Southfury River, within sight of the city gates, but well beyond the reach of either side’s weapons. Miren Songleaf, Princess Tess Greymane, and Lorna Crowley had departed again almost at once, bound for the Talon Gate. There, on Saurfang’s behalf, they would attempt to convince the guards to evacuate as many of Orgrimmar’s civilians as possible. Tyrande had reluctantly agreed to the mission en route to Durotar, but only after Shaw made several persuasive arguments in favor of it. She had not seemed pleased by the prospect of showing mercy to the Horde. Even those among them innocent of any crimes. Unsurprising, of course, and he could not truly be certain if it was Shaw’s appeal that had swayed her, or the thought of condemning others to the same sort of fate as her own people. In the end it didn’t much matter either way; he had done what he could to protect the Horde. Its fate now lay in the hands of his unlikely allies.

“We must be swift and certain in our actions,” Tyrande reminded them, shouting over the harsh sounds of the battle that sprawled before them. She dismissed her own hippogryph mount with a gesture, and the beast took to the air with the rest of its kind. Only one departed still bearing a rider. It would ferry Maiev Shadowsong to the deck of the foremost Alliance airship to carry out her own task. _“Stop them, by any means necessary,”_ Tyrande had instructed. Saurfang did not doubt that she would do so, regardless of what she herself felt the Horde deserved. Above all other concerns—save the survival of her people—the high priestess had vowed to protect the lands of Kalimdor. Shaw’s certainty that Anduin intended to unleash the Forsaken Blight upon Orgrimmar challenged that pledge. And as her word on any matter was final, it would go unchallenged. For that, at least, Saurfang was grateful. Even if he knew it had nothing to do with protecting the people who lived within the city’s walls.

With a look of deep tenderness, Tyrande and her mate, the archdruid Malfurion Stormrage, parted ways. Malfurion and Shaw, the two most capable of undertaking a more clandestine task, had been charged with freeing what captive allies they could locate. It was not an enviable mission, and Saurfang feared it would be in vain if the Warden did not succeed in stopping the blight in time. He had hoped they would gather more allies before departing Darkshore. More hands to hold weapons and stop what _must_ be stopped, but there had been no opportunity. Not long after it began, Tyrande’s Sentinels had interrupted the meeting in Darkshore, reporting signs of a massive Horde withdrawal. There was no doubt then that Anduin had indeed moved his army into place outside of Orgrimmar. Sylvanas was recalling her troops for war.

And so, with what might be no more than a few hours to prevent an atrocity, they had swiftly set out from Darkshore. Eight against the might of an army. Tyrande had been certain their intervention would be more than enough, and the others, at least, seemed to hold a great deal of faith in her word. He had little choice but to do the same.

Now, alone with Tyrande Whisperwind and facing the anarchy that lay before them, Saurfang suddenly felt as though he had rushed headlong around a blind corner. It was as though the battle itself had only been half-planned, without a thought for strategy or even _winning_. Gains on either side appeared incidental, with breaks in the line unevenly distributed. Fighting was densest before the gates, as expected, but it was also precisely where they needed to go. With so much ground to cover, getting there would be a feat in itself.

Saurfang couldn’t help but feel disgusted by it all. War was always a hectic, bloody mess, but it was the charge of those leading the battle to make order of the chaos. He saw none of that in the blood-strewn battlefield that had once been Durotar. Where were the generals? The troops he himself had overseen and trained to regimented perfection? Surely _some_ were left, yet no matter where he looked he only saw disorder and death. The Alliance seemed to be faring no better, and Saurfang couldn’t help but wonder what the old wolf was making of this clearly ill-conceived plan.

But no sooner had the thought crossed his mind than he caught a distant and familiar sound. A long, mournful bellow that cut through the noise of clashing steel and thundering weapons of war.

Greymane.

Tyrande had heard it too, and her keen ears had already discerned not only the source of the cry, but its direction as well. She looked over Saurfang with a doubtful gaze; no reassurance from Shaw could ever completely dispel her hatred of him, and none of the disdain he saw there surprised him. There simply was no time for either of them to address it, nor ease her fears over the betrayal she surely expected. She seemed to realize it too, and with a terse nod she was off, sprinting across the distance that lay between their position and the far end of the Alliance lines. Saurfang was left with little choice but to follow.

Her progress was much easier than his, but if the few soldiers he encountered failed to recognize him as he barrelled past, they were at least wise enough not to tangle with him. He came to a halt in Tyrande’s shadow. She stood frozen before an entirely unexpected sight.

A group of Gilnean soldiers surrounded a large canvas tent, its panels bearing the lion of Stormwind. Their weapons and claws were brandished and clearly ready to bear against what appeared to be a unit of Kul Tiran guards. The latter had encircled the tent, halberds pointed outward to keep the furious Gilneans at bay. Saurfang knew at once that Greymane was inside, and it seemed clear that he was not there willingly.

“What is the meaning of this?” Tyrande shouted over the rabble. The Gilneans abruptly turned their snarls on her, only to realize who it was they now faced. Some dropped to one knee before her. Others only stared. “Where is King Greymane?”

Not one of the Kul Tirans answered. Saurfang could almost feel the force of Tyrande’s anger as she turned her dark stare on the closest guard. “You will bring him to me, _now,_ ” she instructed.

“Orders from _our_ king,” one of the Kul Tirans bit out insolently. His haughty drawl was delivered with a sneer and a sour look. “The traitor’s to be executed following—”

Whatever he had been about to say, he never had the chance to say it. One of the Gilneans lunged, her gold eyes flashing and fangs bared. She was followed by half a dozen of her countrymen, and the Kul Tirans turned on them all as easily as if they had been Horde. The crack of a rifle rang out, and someone fell in a heap against a tent pole, collapsing the entryway.

“We do not have time for this!” Tyrande shouted. She began to throw Gilneans and Kul Tirans alike out of her way. Together with Saurfang, she cleared a path to the tent, where her glaive sliced through the canvas and made a new point of entry.

Greymane was indeed within, and he was not alone. Five Kul Tirans stood around the old wolf, each holding some sort of ritual object. Together they were chanting eerily familiar words that sent a chill down Saurfang’s spine; words he’d last heard in the depths of a sleepless night, uttered into the pillow beside him. They wore strange robes that concealed their faces, but not their hands; their long fingers were pale gray and wrinkled at the tips, as though they had just come from the water. The interruption did not seem to concern them.

In the middle of the strange rite, hunched over on the floor, Greymane was snapping and snarling, thrashing in his bonds. Several thick leather straps were wound around his snout and neck, forcing his head against his chest. Blood had matted the fur against his body, and a strange dagger protruded from his flank where his clothing had been torn away.

As he viewed the gruesome sight before him, rage began to grip Saurfang in a familiar and welcome hold, and he nearly allowed it to take him. He wanted nothing more than to let the bloodlust break over him and sweep him up in its grasp. His fingers flexed and clenched, and his lips twisted in a snarl. He could rip them to pieces with his bare hands. Every single one of them.

“Control yourself!” Tyrande hissed. She reached for the nearest sage and pulled him back by his collar, breaking the ritual circle in the process. The man shrieked and threw himself at her, flailing his arms wildly, and Saurfang neatly dispatched him with a single swing of his axe. Tyrande grimaced and assumed a ready stance as the other four, their intense focus finally broken, turned to face her.

While the high priestess dealt with the Kul Tiran sages, Saurfang saw to the old wolf. His injuries were far more distressing on closer inspection: strange symbols had been carved into his flesh, and at some point his hands and feet had been sliced, likely to prevent an escape. Saurfang tore the leather straps from his snout and tossed them aside. Over his shoulder he could hear the last gasp of a sage and the wet sound of steel as it pierced some vital place on the fiend’s body. “Stay still,” he muttered to Greymane. The shackles would not give easily, and he had no choice but to force them. Greymane’s gold eyes were wide and disbelieving. He was panting into the heat of the tent, either from pain or exertion—perhaps both.

“You picked a fine time to resurrect yourself,” he rasped. His voice was weak, and barely carried over the sounds of death around them.

Saurfang grimaced as the last shackle snapped and fell away. “I would have come sooner if I’d known you let things get this bad.”

Greymane glowered at him, but there was a faint smile in his lupine eyes, and relief that Saurfang was admittedly honored to see. “How in the Light did you _ever_ —” he started to ask, only to curl in on himself and whimper pitifully as the dagger was pulled from his flank. “Tyrande?” he asked weakly.

“I was…” Saurfang shrugged. He tossed the vile knife aside. “Humble.”

Greymane asked, “You? _Humble?_ ” skeptically. Grasping his sides, he looked up at the priestess, who had come to kneel beside them both. Her only answer was a wry look that seemed to be more than enough confirmation for Greymane. With one hand she pulled the Gilnean king to his feet, and hauled his massive, furry arm over her shoulder to keep him steady.

“Why did you come for me? Is Anduin here? Has he—?”

Saurfang felt a jolt of terrible unease. How could he explain? How could he find the words to tell Greymane that they were there for Anduin, not because he might be in danger, but because he was the danger. All he could do was fish the artifact from his pocket and shove it into the wolf’s furry claws. “I don’t know,” he admitted sadly.

Greymane’s eyes held enough pain to tell Saurfang what he had not: Anduin had done this.

“Well, since we’re all here,” Greymane said gruffly. He swayed in place against Tyrande, but managed to remain standing despite his injuries. “And _alive,_ ” he added with a frown for Saurfang. “I think it’s high time we had a word with the king.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Two guards. Peons, from the looks of them,” Lorna reported.

“They all look like peons, love,” Tess answered. She was crouched behind a short outcropping of rock, one hand resting on the hilt of her dagger. Orgrimmar was strangely bereft of protection at its western gate, and she didn’t like that one bit. Either it was a trap, or they were more disorganized and unprepared than even the blasted orc had believed. She frowned at the thought of _Lord_ Saurfang. No one wished to see innocent civilians fall victim to the Blight, least of all she, but it was difficult to imagine there were any true innocents in Orgrimmar. The Horde as a whole stood to gain from every death, every loss of land and resources among the Alliance. How could they live each day unaware of the suffering they had caused? Her bitterness was almost a taste on the back of her tongue as she considered what it was she had been tasked with, and the risk she was taking to see it done. All for the damned _Horde_.

Children, the orc had insisted. And families. There were families in the city. She tried to remember that.

The third member of their party was a young Sentinel named Miren Songleaf. Supposedly the sister of the druid who had kidnapped King Anduin. Tess would follow Lady Tyrande’s orders and keep her close, keep her under a watchful eye, but it seemed unnecessary. Tess scoffed at herself for being so bold as to think any of the kaldorei were _young_ who weren’t less than half her height. But that was how this one seemed to her; uncertain, out of her element. She was also strangely timid for a Sentinel. Her brother’s betrayal seemed to eat at her, and why shouldn’t it? Tess could at least understand that much. Still, the elf was troubled, and troubled would not do. Troubled could easily get them all killed.

“Look alive,” she said, nudging Miren’s arm with her elbow. “Might want to tuck those ears down, Sentinel Songleaf.”

Miren started, and then promptly slid down a little further behind the boulder. “Apologies.”

“We can take them out easily,” Lorna interrupted. “It’s three-on-two, even if they are orcs. The odds are on our side.”

But, much as she was loath to, Tess said, “No, it won’t do to kill them.”

They had to somehow convince whoever was in command of the soldiers by the gate to begin evacuating the city. It would have been a difficult task if they _hadn’t_ been Alliance, but they were, and that complicated things considerably. This wasn’t the sort of mission she was accustomed to undertaking, she reflected with a quiet sigh. Diplomacy of any sort was well outside her expertise, and that was just fine. It would have been preferable to accompany Master Shaw and the archdruid into the Underhold. Even if that _was_ the next best thing to suicide.

Still, matters being what they were, she had little choice.

“Wait here for my signal,” she said, before shrouding herself and stealing away without another word. She let the light hide the lines of her body, using the heat of the late afternoon and the eyes of the guards, so accustomed to surveying the same empty landscape, to her advantage. If they saw anything at all they would dismiss it as a mirage; a rippling of warm air over the barren plain.

It wasn’t until she was upon the first guard that she revealed herself. He fell in a heap where he stood—not dead, but no longer a threat to anyone for the next several minutes. By the time his comrade realized what had happened, he too had been easily disarmed and dealt with. A knife at his throat kept him still, and, with any luck, compliant.

“Listen to me,” she said, speaking what Orcish she knew well enough to be confident he could understand her. “Who is in charge?”

“Alliance filth!” the orc snarled. He made a pathetic attempt to throw her from his back, but she held fast. “I’ll tell you nothing! You’ll have to kill me!”

“You’re of no use to me dead, brute.” But he didn’t seem to be much use to her _alive_ , either. She wrapped her arms around his thick neck and applied just enough pressure to put him to sleep, landing lightly on her feet as he slipped from her arms with all the grace of a limp sack of grain.

She caught the sun with one of her blades, and in the distance Lorna was instantly on her feet. Miren followed, and together the two women quickly made their way across the open ground to the foot of the bridge. “We’ll have to keep going until we find someone willing to listen,” Tess said to them. It wasn’t exactly the most sophisticated plan, but it would have to do in a pinch.

By the third encounter they found themselves facing armored soldiers, rather than mere guards. An odd way to safeguard a capital city, in her opinion, but she had no time to question it. She had only just borne the last of them to the ground when a black arrow sailed past her head, lodging itself deep in the wooden strut of the bridge behind her. Tess followed its path back to the outstretched arm and smug sneer of Nathanos Blightcaller.

“Seems I’ve stumbled upon a band of saboteurs.” Blightcaller canted his head just enough to look past Tess and Lorna. He cocked an eyebrow at the long chain of unconscious orcs and trolls behind them. “Sloppy work, Princess.”

“If I’d aimed to do this neatly, we wouldn’t be standing here speaking,” Tess growled. She was closest to the Banshee Queen’s champion, facing him down with no more than knives in her hands. The crossbow at her hip was less than useless, knowing how quickly Blightcaller could loose an arrow that would pierce her skull clean through. Something he seemed keen to be on about. He had drawn the bowstring back as far as it would go, and though the black wood groaned in protest, his hand remained steady and strong. “Am I to assume you’re commanding the city guard?” she asked him.

Blightcaller appeared genuinely amused by the question, if such a thing were even possible. She had her doubts the undead could feel anything but hatred and twisted pleasure at the misery of others, but she’d been wrong before. “In a manner of speaking,” he answered. “Why? Were you hoping to enlist?”

Tess took a deep breath, pushed her pride and anger and the certainty that they were all about to die down as far as they would go, and said, “You need to evacuate the city.”

So, she had been wrong after all. Blightcaller laughed, _really_ laughed. All while never looking away from the three women standing before him. “You’re serious?” he asked, still smiling. “My, you truly are desperate, aren’t you.”

“This is no trick, and no laughing matter. There are airships loaded with Blight headed for Orgrimmar at this very moment.”

Blightcaller narrowed his eyes and sneered. “And you expect me to simply take you at your word, is that it? Shall I order the soldiers outside to lay down their weapons while I’m at it?” He scoffed. “I had thought you might be a bit smarter than that.”

Her pulse jumped in anger. “You’re a fool if you think we would risk our lives to lie so poorly.”

“Ah, yes. That sounds like just the sort of thing a clever little girl like you might say to make me take the bait,” Blightcaller said. “But I’m afraid it won’t work.”

Tess had known this mission would be a gamble, but she hadn’t expected the losing hand to be quite so unfavorable. Blightcaller was almost always at the Banshee Queen’s side. Encountering him here had never been a part of the plan.

Well, if she was going to die anyway…

“You destroyed my home,” she spat, brandishing her daggers and crouching to strike. She might not be much of a match for an archer, but she would give it her best. “Killed my brother. And yet I came here to warn you, knowing it for a fool’s errand. I should have trusted my gut and left you lot to choke on your own wretched plague.”

Blightcaller grinned. “The benefits of hindsight.”

“Enough!” Miren shouted. She lowered her own bow and stepped up next to Tess. Though she was a good head taller than any of them, she still seemed noticeably diminished; smaller than she should have been, in more ways than one. Yet she spoke with the confidence befitting a Sentinel. “The Banshee Queen didn’t have to burn Teldrassil, but she did. And you can kill us, but it won’t change Orgrimmar’s fate. We came here knowing the risk. A part of me wishes we hadn’t bothered.” She shook her head, and her long ears swayed. “Heed this warning or strike us down. The choice is yours.”

Tess almost expected another round of snide laughter, but instead Blightcaller was silent. The stillness of death was about him as he seemed to weigh her words. His aim did not waver, and his gaze never faltered. It felt as though an eternity had passed before he cracked a smirk and lowered his bow. “Very well,” he said.

Tess could only stare, mouth twisted in a disbelieving frown and weapons still at the ready. There was a fire within her, holding her heart, and she wanted dearly to quench it with whatever remained of Blightcaller’s blood. Behind her she knew Lorna would feel much the same. They had lain awake enough nights to know they were each of the same mind in that regard. It seemed too easy. Too clean. “Why?” she asked. _Why Gilneas, why Teldrassil?_ Or perhaps _why now?_ After all the wanton death and destruction, why would he give in so easily?

Briefly relinquishing the haughty air of disdain that seemed to encircle him like a cloak, Blightcaller dropped his gaze and turned away. His back was exposed, and Tess yearned to bury her knives in his spine. He started to walk away, and she took another step forward.

“Why?” she demanded again.

Blightcaller stopped. Over his shoulder, he said, “As your comrade said, the choice is mine, Princess. I wouldn’t dig any deeper if I were you.” His red eyes narrowed dangerously. “Now, leave this city, or see yourselves hanging from the gates before nightfall.”

 

* * *

 

 

Anduin Wrynn was no longer the child who had stood before her in the empty throne room of Lordaeron’s capital, hoping to win a game better men had lost. But nor was he the desperately naive young king who had nearly sent his people to slaughter in Arathi. He was filled with a rage she had never imagined him possessing, let alone acting upon, throwing himself at her time and again in a bid to take her head. She laughed at his efforts and easily deflected a blow that might have cut her to the bone—had it connected. He wielded his father’s sword with no more grace or skill than he had the last time their armies met, but instead relied almost entirely on brute force. He showed none of the hesitation she had come to expect, and despite herself she still felt the pull of a nagging sense of wariness, even as she effortlessly avoided his blade.

“I’m disappointed, Your Majesty,” she jeered, “you’ve had a skilled warrior at your disposal for quite some time now.” She wanted him to feel his humiliation. To know how close he had come to landing a blow. “Yet it seems you never asked for a single lesson in proper swordplay.” Her laughter carried across the battlefield. “Or was he too busy tutoring you in more _practical_ skills? I’m sure Varok Saurfang possessed experience to rival your own and then some.”

Still, no matter how cruel or well-aimed, her poisonous words failed to find their target. Sylvanas grimaced as she herself struck out, only to meet air. Varian’s little cub might not have gained any battle prowess since their last encounter, but he had certainly tapped into a wealth of stamina. No human should have been able to endure so long against one whose body required no rest, no fuel to feed it. She was toying with him, of course; time was her ally and his enemy. But a strange sense told her that for all his apparent inexperience, he was in no rush himself, and she did not like that.

The daggers she kept concealed on her person would not penetrate his plate armor, but they did not need to. Sylvanas wanted the whelp alive, whole, and able to bear witness to his failure as she raised his people and slaughtered his allies. She had plans for him, and they did not include obliterating him where he stood unless it was absolutely necessary. Although, she reflected darkly, it would certainly make matters much simpler. And far more amusing. However, for the moment she had chosen to withhold the power of her terrible wail. Anduin Wrynn would suffer a far worse fate once her reinforcements arrived.

Until that happened, she intended to keep him focused on her, unbalanced and reckless, heedless of the damage his rage had done to his own cause. If “killing” his lover had driven him to such lengths, surely a reminder of all he’d lost would topple his self control completely.

“Would you like to know how he died?” she asked, sparing him a smile. “On his knees, Little Lion. Head bowed before I took it from his shoulders. If you care to step inside the gates, I can show you where we’ve hung his body.” Anduin growled—the first sound she’d heard him make since their duel had commenced—and swung at her legs. A clumsy effort to cripple her, and one she easily avoided. “My, does that anger you? Had you been hoping he faced his death with _honor?_ Head held high?”

Around them the battle raged on, and at a glance it appeared her soldiers were doing a decent job of keeping the Alliance at bay. Their siege towers could do little to harm Orgrimmar’s well-fortified structures at such a distance, and their archers even less. She could see magic shielding her own, stationed foremost upon the wall. It meant that those few arrows able to cross the distance met only impenetrable barriers, falling uselessly to the ground. All around her the hard-packed earth was littered with the wasted efforts of her enemies.

“Did you weep for him?” she asked. She had trapped Shalamayne between the crossed blades of her daggers, locking the ornate double blade between her own crossguards. She felt him jerk his arm in vain, and perhaps he might have freed himself, but with a wicked grin she twisted and pulled, dragging Wrynn with her as she spun them both where they stood. It worked even better than she had anticipated; the sword slipped from his hand, Anduin fell to his knees, and when it was all over Sylvanas was halfway between both. She stepped back onto the blade to make certain it stayed there. “Did you shed tears for your dead lover, Anduin?” She heaped all of her scorn onto his name, spitting it out like it was an obscenity. “Perhaps you clutched your pillows close, hoping to catch his scent. And you thought you could come here to avenge his memory, is that it? Foolish little boy.”

If she could have felt the sort of giddiness she had known long ago, in her former life, she might have been giggling. She bent down to retrieve the sword, holding it up with both hands to feel the weight, to admire its beauty. Elven craftsmanship at its most glorious.

With a snort, she tossed it over her shoulder, letting it land in the shadow of the gate. It landed among a pile of arrows and bolts that had missed their mark. There it would stay until she was ready to take it as her trophy. For now…

Sylvanas cast a sidelong glance at the remains of the skeletal steed. Its saddle and barding had not crumbled to dust with the rest of the beast, and in the pile of ash and shattered bone lay the final piece of this puzzle. The blow that would break the boy king once and for all.

She went to the saddle and opened the leather bag tied to the side. The hinge of the face guard keened in protest as it clacked shut under its own weight. Sylvanas examined it once more; its dents and scratches, all the flaked paint and worn metal that had seen decades of war and death.

She threw it onto the ground before the kneeling king. She sneered, “A token. All you’ll ever have of him.”

Anduin was silent as he reached for the discarded piece of armor. No more than a fingertip touched the metal spikes, and he withdrew his hand sharply. His shoulders began to rise and fall with the steady heave of his chest, and his empty gaze seemed to burn into hers. Sylvanas narrowed her eyes and brandished her daggers. Was he really thinking to challenge her again? She had bested him with hardly an effort. She was the Banshee Queen, and he was a boy with a broken heart. What could he—

“ _Sylvanas,_ ” he hissed, her name echoing strangely within his helm. His gloved hands clawed at the collar of his breastplate, pulling on the buckles that held it in place, but he could not seem to work them free. With a strangled sound of pain he stumbled to his feet, and he lurched several steps before he doubled over and gurgled something unintelligible. For a moment she thought he might fall again, but somehow he found his balance, and he stood, still clutching his middle. He shuddered in his armor and gasped, “ _Run_.”

 

* * *

 

 

“I don’t understand, what is this?” Greymane asked, turning the artifact over in his paw. He was still relying on Tyrande for balance, but he seemed to have regained some of his former strength as they made their way toward the gates.

“Thought you’d recognize it,” Saurfang grunted, shouldering into the back of a tauren and sending him stumbling into the melee. “It was around Anduin’s neck the night we found him in Darkshore.”

“ _This_ is what prevented him from escaping on his own? From saving you?” He held it close to his eye and examined it. “But how?”

Beside him, Tyrande said, “It would take far too long to explain. For now you need only know that we have deduced its origins lay with the cultists of the Twilight’s Hammer.”

“The Twilight’s Hammer?” Greymane swiveled his broad head to look over at Saurfang, who was still attempting to clear a path. “Have they put him under some sort of spell?” he asked. He seemed almost hopeful, and Saurfang was sorry to have to take that away from him.

But Tyrande saved him the trouble. “Nothing so simple as that, I am afraid,” she said. “The Twilight’s Hammer may have delivered this relic into the hands of his captors, but its true power flows from a far more ancient source than their twisted rituals. A being of primal darkness, voracious and without pity.”

“An Old God,” Saurfang growled darkly.

Greymane sputtered and stumbled over his words, dragging on Tyrande’s arm as he slowed his steps almost as if in protest. Finally he found his tongue, and declared, “That is ludicrous! Ludicrous! Anduin is—he isn’t _Garrosh Hellscream_ , for Light’s sake!”

Saurfang shook his head. “No,” he agreed. “He’s much stronger.”

“A far more tempting target for one who craves the subjugation and corruption of all life,” Tyrande added. “Surely you have noticed what it’s done to him.” She gestured to the battlefield around them with a sweep of her glaive.

From the corner of his eye Saurfang watched as Greymane’s golden eyes darted too and fro, as though searching about for some better truth, something more palatable, and kinder on his wounded heart. He alone had witnessed Anduin’s journey to whatever end the power that held him intended for the boy; he knew, deep down, though it was clear he desperately wished to deny it. “No, not Anduin. I… I cannot accept…” he began, only to stop himself again. He shook his head. Using his free hand, he dragged his long fingers down the length of his face. “What can we do?” he asked.

Saurfang was still working on that, and had not yet devised an answer that he thought might satisfy them all. He was about to say as much when he caught sight of two soldiers wrestling on the ground. They were throwing punches as they rolled about, seemingly intent on killing one another. Both wore Alliance armor.

“What the…” Greymane and Tyrande had come to a stop behind him. “What is this?”

Another soldier—a goblin—had apparently stripped down to no more than his trousers. He was sitting on the ground with his legs crossed, drawing diagrams in the dirt. He didn’t stop even when a draenei toppled over him.

Before they could investigate further, a horrifying, piercing wail split the air, and Saurfang felt the force of it down to the depths of his soul. “ _Sylvanas,_ ” he growled. At a distance her wail was no more than a painful shock to the body. Up close, it would be devastating. He could think of only one reason why she might unleash such power now.

Greymane’s eyes grew wide, and he stumbled from Tyrande’s grasp. “He couldn’t…”

They all knew what he meant. There was no need to say it. Saurfang hefted his axe and turned to Tyrande. “Stay with him,” he said.

“You cannot face her alone,” Tyrande argued. “She will destroy you.”

That was likely true. But he wouldn’t let the Banshee Queen take Anduin. Not if he could help it, not if he could help _him_. There was no point arguing with the priestess, and so he simply set off for the gate, knowing they would follow.

Strange sights gave way to signs of deeper madness as they drew closer, and the bodies that littered the ground began to show signs of a more malevolent force than mere blades and bows. Saurfang had feared that drawing too close to the wall would be dangerous, but the archers and spellcasters appeared to have abandoned their posts, or else fallen victim to whatever had gripped the soldiers around them. More than once he was forced to incapacitate and even kill in order to escape the chaos. All the while a strange pressure, like the front of a building storm, felt as though it had descended on the battlefield.

It did not take long to discover its source.

“Anduin.” If speaking his name in Darkshore had felt like a release, saying it now, so close he could almost touch him, was like a blessing. But the relief, the joy, was short-lived.

Sylvanas was nowhere to be found, yet Anduin battled on. Only he no longer fought his enemy, but whatever unfortunate souls his blade would reach. Saurfang watched in horror as Anduin drove Shalamayne through the chest of a draenei priest, snuffing out the light that whirled around her as she attempted to heal one of her comrades. He turned, the blade still lodged in her body, and jerked it free as he lashed out at a tauren who had been strangling an orc with his bare hands. Wherever Anduin went, the fighting worsened, and bodies fell in his wake. He screamed—as he killed, as he wiped his blade on the once-blue cloth draped over his armor, as he plunged into the fray to kill again. His voice was hollow and raw, deeper than it should have been. But worst of all was the helm, and the empty, black void behind its eyes. It dripped like liquid smoke from the sockets, poured from the thin slit in the lion’s mouth, and became a black mane around his neck. When it touched the soldiers they howled in pain, and when it found its way into their wounds and beneath their armor they shrieked as they died.

Saurfang could not have imagined anything so shocking, so grotesque, and all of it at Anduin’s hands. He moved without thinking; his feet carried him forward until the force of the power Anduin had summoned became too much to bear. He took a deep breath and shouted, “Anduin!”

The figure he knew so well slowly turned in place, and for a single, hopeful breath, he thought he saw a spark of recognition. A start, and a tentative step forward. Shalamayne slipped from his hand.

Saurfang felt the pressure ease, and he struggled against it to reach Anduin. He was so close. So close. He could nearly reach out and touch him.

But whatever it was that had crawled inside Anduin and turned him into this… _thing_ , it held no affection for him. Like a wall coming down on him the crushing pressure around him returned, nearly causing his knees to buckle. Only a few feet away now, Anduin slowly bent to retrieve Shalamayne, and Saurfang felt something within him wrench in agony.

“Anduin, don’t,” he ground through clenched teeth, warning him in the same breath. It was useless, and he knew it, but he had to try. He would never forgive himself if he didn’t try. “Put it down.”

But Anduin wasn’t listening, and he didn’t lower the sword. He took another step forward.

Saurfang tightened the hold he had on his axe. The noise of the battle around them had all but faded into the background, no more meaningful to him than the rush of a breeze through tall grass, or the whisper of light rain. He listened to each footstep as Anduin slowly advanced on him. He heard the ring of the metal as Shalamayne’s blade was drawn through the dirt and sand. Beneath it all was the pounding of his own heart.

Anduin’s shoulders were hunched. Wisps of darkness dripped from the gaps in his armor, swirling around his feet before dissipating, slithering into the shadow of the gate. He pulled back to strike, and Saurfang was immediately taken back to the night in the training yard. The rainstorm. The look of pure, spiteful determination on Anduin’s face. He had known then how deeply he felt for him, but he hadn’t yet admitted it to himself. And then Anduin had been taken away, and Saurfang had realized that a part of him had been stolen along with the young king.

“Anduin…” He bowed his head. The wood of the axe handle creaked in protest as he twisted it in his grip. “Stop.”

He heard the hiss, the keen blade parting the air as it passed, and he raised his own weapon to meet it. The same dance. They were in the training yard again, and Anduin was telegraphing his every move. So predictable and so earnest. Even twisted into something sinister as he was now, he could not help but tell the truth.

Anduin struck again. Once that same blow had split his chin, but this time Saurfang easily avoided it. He felt heavy in his boots. The darkness that surrounded Anduin was growing, pooling on the ground around his feet, moving with him, and surging with each step he took. The next time he attacked the shadows attacked with him, and Saurfang was forced to sacrifice his footing to escape the curling tendril that sought to ensnare him.

Again Shalamayne came down, and again Saurfang parried the blow. But it couldn’t go on forever; the strength of whatever had taken hold of Anduin, whatever it was within him, was growing harder to deny with each passing second. Like a impossibly heavy boot on his chest, bearing down on him from every angle, it insinuated itself into the very air around him. He felt unseen fingers as they plucked at his mind. How he had avoided going mad like the soldiers was beyond his understanding, but he knew it was only a matter of time before he succumbed just as they had.

The next time Anduin went for the same upthrust attack, Saurfang was prepared for it. He let his own weight carry him onto his heels and fell back, well out of the way of Anduin’s blade. In the same motion he swung his axe and caught Anduin in the middle. The hit bore him down to the ground, but there was no mud to cushion his fall this time. No soft wood to ease the pain. While it was not hard enough to damage the body beneath the armor, it left him gasping on the ground.

“Stay down,” Saurfang said, breathing hard through the unrelenting pain. His left foot lay on Shalamayne’s blade, but he had learned his lesson; when Anduin attempted to rise and take the weapon with him, he found himself grasping only air. With a metallic clack the sword slapped the hard-baked earth, remaining where it was beneath Saurfang’s foot.

That was when Anduin—the creature that _looked_ like Anduin—snapped. He screamed and hurled himself at Saurfang’s chest. It was so sudden and violent that he managed to take him by surprise and knock him back, but he did not immediately go for the sword once it was free. Instead he attacked with another wave of that same inescapable force, and Saurfang roared as his head exploded in agony. Like a thousand tiny blades piercing his skull at once. His vision went white, and his hands clawed uselessly for the axe he had dropped.

When he could focus again he saw that Anduin was back on his feet, stumbling toward Shalamayne. But momentarily free from the pain, Saurfang was closer and faster. He shot to his feet and barreled into Anduin from behind, knocking him well past the sword and back onto his hands and knees in the dirt.

“Stay down!” he shouted again.

Anduin rose once more, and Saurfang fought the urge to roar in grief and rage.

Shalamayne now lay between them, no more than a few short paces away, and the only weapon either could claim in time to stop the other. Anduin moved first. He dove for the blade with his hands outstretched, a feral snarl issuing from within the helm as his gloved fingers closed around the longer half of the blade, but it quickly turned into an outraged cry of shock as Saurfang tore it from his grip. He had grasped the handle.

Anduin launched himself across the space between them and threw his entire weight onto Saurfang, knocking him onto his back a second time. He clawed and punched at him, and with every blow came a new spike of pain, each harsher than the last, cutting deeper and deeper into Saurfang’s mind. He blindly grabbed for something— _anything_ —and found his fingers hooked around the curve of Anduin’s breastplate. With one great shove he threw him back, and for just a moment the pain ceased again. But it returned in the space of a breath, and Saurfang fell to his knees. Shalamayne landed in the dirt beside him.

He could hear Greymane through it all; the wolf’s inarticulate shouting, and words he could not think clearly to decipher with Anduin’s power closing in on him from all sides. He felt hands clutching at him, darkness licking its way along the fingers, searching for his flesh.

A single moment of clarity was all it took; Saurfang shoved Anduin back again, this time by the muzzle of his helm. The shadows burned where they touched his skin, and he shouted in anguish. With the same hand he reached for Shalamayne. He spared a glance at the fighting that continued to rage around them, and found that the terrifying display had spread to encompass all of the visible battlefield. Soldiers were viciously slaughtering both friend and foe, while some had turned their madness inward, using weapons, claws, and even blunt fingers to tear their own bodies apart. Those few lucky enough to escape the waves of nauseating pain and rage had instead chosen to flee; more than one had run directly into the hands of a far more brutal death. Behind him an Alliance soldier abandoned his weapon and sprinted for the open gate of Orgrimmar. No one had been spared.

Not even Tyrande and Greymane.

“Stop this!” Saurfang roared. “You’ll kill them!” He _was_ killing them. Greymane was already injured and had collapsed, writhing in agony on the ground. And though she appeared far more successful at resisting his power, Tyrande was nevertheless on her knees. Her hands were buried in her hair, clutching her scalp, and in her distress she had bitten through her lower lip. Saurfang knew then he had to think of something. He had to _do_ something.

Anduin was stirring, rising from where he had landed in a twisted heap. The helm had been knocked from his head, and for the first time in months, Saurfang was able to truly see him.

Yet, as beheld what had become of his beautiful king, he desperately wished he hadn’t.

“Oh, _Anduin_ ,” he breathed. It felt as though a cold hand had gripped his heart, but it was nothing in the face of the pain that lanced through his mind as Anduin lashed out again, bearing him to his knees before he had a chance to stand. Saurfang clutched Shalamayne close, and fought for every second of clear thought he had the strength to maintain. It wasn’t much. Anduin was coming closer, and as the distance between them closed, the searing pressure increased, and the pain with it. Clenching his teeth, Saurfang struggled to raise his head, to find some way to stop the dark creature looming over him before it was too late.

Swallowing back a scream of his own, he forced his eyes to remain open. To watch Anduin closely as he approached. He needed only one weakness to exploit; one opening to take him down.

His gaze fell upon Anduin’s bloodstained breastplate, smeared with a terrible rainbow of colors that were only too easy to identify. Beneath it all, standing out against the ruby red of human blood, was a slight imperfection in the once-immaculate armor. An ugly gouge that had been patched and repaired, but remained nonetheless weaker than the metal around it.

He wanted to say he was sorry. To beg forgiveness. He wished, with all his soul, that he could tell him why it was necessary. But there was nothing left of Anduin to receive such words.

Saurfang leapt up, heaving himself to his feet and bearing Anduin back to the ground with all the strength he yet possessed. When the dust cleared, the tip of Shalamayne lay buried within the fresh tear in his armor. The creature that had once been Anduin clawed ineffectually at Saurfang’s knees where he had come down astride his chest. He growled and cursed; foul, foreign words that no ears should ever hear. But still the pain persisted. Still Saurfang fought to keep from going mad at the sheer intensity of it.

The same black tendrils oozed from the wound, winding around Shalamayne, and Saurfang realized with a lurch in his gut that it was no wound at all; he had penetrated the armor, but done no damage to Anduin himself. His fears were confirmed when he saw the terrible smile, full of darkness and hate, leering up at him.

A force like the blow of a thousand hammers struck him all at once, and Saurfang roared in agony. There was no longer a question in his mind: he would die, and Anduin would kill everyone. The Horde. The Alliance. Saurfang tightened his hold on the sword and tried to push past the barrier of shadow, but it would go no further. All of his vast strength proved no more than an inconvenience in the face of such raw power.

“Anduin, please,” he pleaded, unsure anymore what he was even asking for. A swift death, perhaps. Mercy. He had never asked for either, and he found he could only stomach it now, when it meant escaping this hell and the terrible truth of what Anduin had become. “ _Please_.” He released the pressure on the blade and bowed his head, accepting defeat for the first time in his life. The last time.

Suddenly the hands that had been pushing and clawing at him disappeared, and the struggling ceased. Saurfang opened his eyes to find _Anduin_ looking up at him. His soft blue eyes and kind smile, clear even beneath the horror that had enveloped him. Without uttering a word, Anduin placed his palm flat on the side of Shalamayne’s broad blades, and the sword flared to life. A warm, golden glow filled the empty space in the blade’s core, just as it had when he’d held it at Lordaeron. And as it did, Saurfang felt the first true peace he had known in months.

Then Anduin’s fingers slowly began to curl into claws. His smile melted into a cruel grin. Saurfang closed his eyes.

The barrier of shadow parted like smoke as he drove the sword through Anduin’s chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on GOD there is another chapter


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this fic has been one hell of a journey, and I absolutely wouldn't have been able to get it done without the support of my friends Esther, Mach, and Indifen. Not to mention my fiance, who puts up with every revision and random idea (and just me in general). I've also received wonderful feedback and assistance from other friends as well, and so I would like to thank Vamp and KingMattie, who may not even remember helping me out after so long. Sorry if I've forgotten anyone, but to be fair I don't think anyone reads these notes. Just know you're loved and appreciated and this fic is for you.
> 
> A lot of this chapter was written much earlier, probably some time around chapter two or three. I've been very excited to get to this point, so I hope you all enjoy it. Please do read the notes at the end.

“Bring him to me.”

Sylvanas had watched the smoldering airships as they diverted from their course, taking them away from the city and out to sea. From there they had disappeared, and although she could have given orders to pursue, she suddenly found herself beset by a slew of problems far more pressing than retreating enemies.

High Chieftain Baine Bloodhoof, the Archdruid Hamuul Runetotem, and their treacherous associates had vanished. Spirited from their cells in the Underhold as if by magic. Only it wasn’t magic at all, and she was far from amused. The loss of those valuable prisoners could spell disaster if the tauren were to catch wind of Baine’s imprisonment. To say nothing of what he had learned from Sylvanas herself. She could not afford to lose the tauren, not yet, and with recent developments it appeared as though she would be dependent upon them for some time to come.

What soldiers the Horde could spare in Orgrimmar had been utterly devastated during the battle, and rerouting her forces back to Darkshore had proved impossible. That left her in the uncomfortable position of effectively abandoning her plans for the kaldorei lands, and the scores of human corpses in its waters. No doubt the priestess and her ilk would see to it those bodies were made unfit for recovery at the earliest opportunity.

And as if that weren’t troubling enough, during the height of the battle she had retreated to the city to find the streets filled with panicked citizens; orcs carrying all they could hold, trolls dragging carts full of junk meaningful only to their own strange rituals. And behind it all, ordering her soldiers to carry out the evacuation of the entire city, was her own champion. By the time she had put a stop to it, nearly three-quarters of Orgrimmar had been dispersed into the Barrens. It had taken most of the night and a number of soldiers she could _not_ afford to spare in order to return them all to their proper places within the city. Not that she had entertained the notion of retaliating against Wrynn right away. Assuming it would do her any good to _try_.

“The traitor, Dark Lady,” her ranger announced.

Sylvanas tore herself from her own reverie, and she was more than happy to leave such infuriating thoughts behind—for the moment. She sat up, poised on the edge of the throne, and watched as they led him into the hold in chains. Pageantry, of course; the chains would do little if he chose to fight his captivity. But he bore the humiliation remarkably well, with his head held high. His eyes burned into hers as he approached, and despite herself, despite the fury that simmered just beneath the surface, a part of her wanted to admire his audacity. The sheer strength of his will.

“Leave us.”

One or two furtive, wary glances were exchanged among her Dark Rangers and the other guards present. She had expected as much, knowing they did not fear for her safety, but their own self-interest. She knew, and they all knew, that what happened next within the walls of Grommash Hold would be great deal more intriguing than any secondhand accounts, guesses, or outright fabrications could conjure. It was no more than natural, somewhat morbid curiosity. They wanted to see for themselves what sort of fate Nathanos Blightcaller had brought down upon his miserable head.

“Sylvanas—” he began once they were alone.

Sylvanas stiffened at the sound of his voice. An unexpected reaction that she did not appreciate. “No.”

“My lady.”

“ _No_.”

An eternity passed as they watched one another, a pale imitation of a moment far more meaningful, now long lost to a forgotten history. Finally he released his rigid posture, let the slack in his joints carry his head down until he could only gaze at the floor, and sighed. “Warchief.”

“I should condemn you to an eternity of torment; strike you down and have my Val’kyr raise you again, simply to amuse myself with your suffering.”

He had lied to her. _Betrayed_ her. Oh, the inconvenience of wrangling thousands of Orgrimmar’s citizens, convincing them that it was safe to return to their homes, hardly mattered. Even if it had cost her the opportunity to take her pick from among the Alliance fallen. No, Nathanos’ betrayal had struck far deeper. It had nearly cost her _everything_.

“Yes, you should,” he said simply.

She could not reconcile the man before her with the loyal champion who had once vowed to stand by her side. How he could look her in the eye and simply accept what would be a fate far, far worse than true death. What had become of _her_ that she had allowed this to happen? “How did you do it?” she demanded. How had he slipped his lead, and come so close to bringing utter destruction down upon them all?

Nothing was as she had expected it to be. The Dark Rangers had investigated following the discovery of Nathanos’ betrayal, and confirmed that the stockpile of Blight in the Barrens was gone—as well as the entire _village_ that had rested atop it, camouflaging the location’s true purpose. Her apothecaries were little more than charred husks atop a burned-out pyre, and no one could tell her when or how it had happened. She suspected, but could not confirm, that those Alliance airships which had come so close to the city had something to do with the disappearance. That they carried a payload of death the likes of which few had ever seen, and fewer still had lived to remember.

A part of her, long-buried beneath hatred and rage, wanted to shudder at the thought of what might have happened had such an attack succeeded. But she had been distracted at the time, struggling to survive a hand-to-hand fight with _Anduin Wrynn_ , of all people. She had tossed him his lover’s face guard and the ridiculous little cub had transformed before her very eyes, becoming something she could never have imagined, something darker than even appearances would suggest. And they suggested a great deal. A dark power greater than even her own had taken hold of him, and even her wail had produced no effect. Those closest to their duel had died instantly, of course, but the little lion had remained standing, and somewhere in the deepest pit of her being Sylvanas _had_ felt fear.

Had Nathanos known? Was he privy to the monster lurking in their midst, disguised as a sniveling whelp? Had he planned it all _just_ to see her destroyed? It was still difficult to conceive of such betrayal, after the lengths she had gone to in order to secure his obedience. Yet the facts spoke for themselves, and she could not deny them any more than she could deny her own nature. All that remained was to divine the secret of his escape, and ensure it would _never_ happen again.

“Perhaps it’s best if you do not know,” he said.

The walls of the hold rattled as she shouted, “That is not for _you_ to decide!”

He nodded his assent, if grudgingly. She would have expected him to gloat. She was almost angry that he seemed so resigned to whatever fate she intended for him. She asked again, “How did you do it, and _why?_ ”

When he looked up, his gaze was soft. “I would never have disobeyed you,” he said, more gently than he had spoken for many, many years.

Sylvanas felt her fury harden her resolve like well-tempered steel. “You were never meant to. I saw to that myself.”

He almost appeared  _sad_. If such a thing were possible. “And so you have your answer.”

She regarded him for several more minutes, silently contemplating all the ways she could unleash her fury, the howling disappointment within the pit of her being, and yet still force him to accept the error of his ways. Some ages-old part of her—another lingering inconvenience—could not deny that even now, even following a betrayal that might have cost her very existence, she felt compelled to keep him near. Realizing that only deepened her anger, and she called sharply for her Dark Rangers.

“Put him somewhere I never have to see him again,” she spat. She watched them all go, watched Nathanos’ back as he shuffled from the hold, and resisted the urge to obliterate everyone and everything around her for miles.

 

* * *

 

 

There was light. Warm and clear and pouring in through every open window, bathing the room in a golden glow. Anduin blinked as his vision cleared and the shape of his own chambers resolved around him. He was lying in his bed, surrounded by familiarity. Pieces of a puzzle that formed his life. Beloved artifacts from a better time. As he looked upon them one by one, reacquainting himself with their outlines and affirming that he was, in fact, alive, he realized that a dark form was huddled in the far corner. Something incongruous with the other shapes that surrounded him. It sat just beyond the reach of the light, wrapped in gray shadow, and for an instant he recoiled in fear. His sudden movement caught the attention of the corner’s occupant, who began to stir in response. Great arms and broad shoulders unfolded from the chair that was too small to contain them, and the mass that Anduin had mistaken for the return of his waking nightmares abruptly became a shape he had once been certain he would never see again.

“ _Var—Varok,_ ” he tried to say, but the sound that issued from his throat was weak and raw. He swallowed and tried again, finding that he simply could not give the words proper substance.

Saurfang had already lifted himself out of the chair and was coming closer. Anduin wanted to believe it was real. He had been drowning in lies for so long, choking on one terrible illusion after another, the thought of one more, one so terribly cruel, was too much to bear. He struggled to breathe beneath the rapid rise and fall of his chest and the frantic, fluttering rhythm of his heart as it hammered against his ribs. When he looked up at the looming figure beside his bed, he nearly cried out in fear of what might really be there, what insidious game the whispers in his mind had devised to torment him this time.

But it was a real hand that touched his chin, real fingertips that gently lifted his face to look into brown that eyes he knew—he _knew_ could not be replicated by any sinister shadow. Anduin choked back a dry sob and tried to reach out. His left arm obeyed; it was his right that refused to move.

“Lie still,” Saurfang commanded. His tone was gentle, but still firm. The quiet rumble of his voice sounded like distant thunder, welcome and comforting. He leaned over the bed, one hand holding onto the solid wooden headboard, and brushed his knuckles across Anduin’s cheek. He seemed unconcerned with the weak hand that grasped desperately at his arm. “Your prophet has said that the wound will take time to fully heal.”

Anduin craned his neck to look down at his own chest. A bandage was just barely visible, peeking out from beneath the blanket that had been pulled up to his bare shoulders. He tried to ask what it was, why and how he had been injured, but in the heartbeat between seconds he remembered. He remembered everything.

It was like being plunged into ice water. Anduin sucked in a breath so sharp it burned his throat, and with his one working arm he buried his face in his hand as he rolled away from Saurfang, away from the compassion he didn’t deserve. His wound ached and he could feel the sting of freshly torn skin beneath the bandage, but it didn’t matter. He had killed them all. Men and women, warriors of the Horde, loyal Alliance soldiers, they had died in fear, confused and betrayed as they were racked by madness and agony that _he_ had set upon them. He could hear their cries clawing at him from the corners of his mind. Worse still, he could recall his own voice as it had been, shattered and corrupted by the darkness, tearing from his throat in a deafening scream. The last sound so many had heard. His own anguish had fueled an unthinkable destructive rampage, and only death had been sufficient to stop him. Death at the hands of the one who cared most for him. There had been no other way.

He was a monster.

“You are no monster,” Saurfang assured him. It was only then that Anduin realized he had been speaking aloud—or trying to.

“I am, I _am_ ,” he insisted, his own hoarse voice muffled by the pillow. He wanted to crawl into the bed and simply stop being. He didn’t even deserve that much mercy.

“I have spent my life in the company of monsters, and I have done monstrous things in their service.” Saurfang sat on the side of the bed. The sudden severe dip in the mattress forced Anduin to turn over again, rolling onto his back so that he had no choice but to face the light. A wide, warm palm cupped the side of his cheek. “That is not what you are.”

But reassurance simply wasn’t enough. Anduin could not forget their faces, or how they had looked at him, how they had recoiled in horror as their king became a creature of shadow before their very eyes. As long as he lived he was certain their fear would be burned into his memory.

“Velen said your other wounds could be dealt with when you woke, and that it would be best if you healed them yourself, slowly. I will bring you something to eat. You’ll need your strength,” Saurfang said. When he stood up it seemed to Anduin as though he was turning his back, and for a terrifying moment he thought perhaps he had been right all along—that none of this was real at all, and he was still trapped in that endless nightmare, tormented by lies.

But then he felt that same gentle warmth. The caress of a callused hand.

“Thank you,” he whispered, closing his eyes. The pain in his throat was almost unbearable, even after no more than the few words he had spoken since waking up. He was slowly becoming aware of more injuries, bruises and burns that he thought might have been the result of battle, but more likely the work of others attempting to ward him off. To escape. He wondered how far they had gone in their efforts to stop him. He wondered who was still alive. “Genn—”

“The old wolf is awake. I’ll see to it he is told you are as well.”

Relief he didn’t deserve flooded through Anduin’s being, and he screwed his eyes shut tightly.

Saurfang lingered in the doorway; Anduin could still hear him breathing. “Rest,” he said in the same firm tone as before. “I’ll return soon.”

Anduin nodded. He didn’t dare open his eyes to make certain Saurfang had seen it. He knew that if he did, the tears burning the backs of his eyelids would start to fall, and once they did he was not certain he would have the strength to stop them.

 

* * *

 

 

Saurfang closed the door to Anduin’s chambers quietly. He was not accustomed to being so delicate, not even in the keep, but some strange part of him felt compelled to be cautious around Anduin now. He seemed… brittle. Like cracked glass, ready to shatter at the slightest touch. Had he been anyone else, under any other circumstances, Saurfang might have rolled him out of the bed and told him to grow a spine. But what Anduin had been through, even what little they understood of it, was far worse than a mere bruising of the body. His mind had not been his own. What’s more, he’d had no hand in its taking. Saurfang himself had chosen to drink the blood of Mannoroth. Whatever else he had done while under the Legion’s thumb, he knew that choice, at least, was his. Anduin could not say the same.

“He’s awake?” he heard Shaw ask. The spymaster was coming up the hall in his direction. He was not accompanied by any of his SI:7 agents, nor were there others nearby to overhear the exchange. They had seen no need to post guards outside the door when Saurfang himself was keeping watch at Anduin’s bedside day and night.

“He is,” he said. “But I would not disturb him now.”

Shaw nodded sharply. “I suppose it was something of a shock, waking up to find you there.”

In truth, he hadn’t been certain Anduin believed it _was_ him. Not at first. The fear in his eyes had been deep; an old wound, long accustomed to the pain, and only expecting more. It was when Saurfang had touched his face that he seemed to open up and accept that it was real, they were home, and he was safe. But even that had not been enough to shield him from the burden of his own memories. The draenei prophet had not known what details Anduin would recall of his ordeal, if he recalled any at all. Unfortunately for Anduin, it seemed his memory was quite clear.

“And you?” he asked, nodding to the loose-fitting linen shirt and pants the spymaster wore. Not his usual attire—by quite a stretch, in fact.

“The healers would like for me to ‘take some time,’” Shaw answered. His frown said all that was needed about his opinion on that matter. “A week. Enough time to sail back to Boralus, stumble to a bed, and sleep off this whole ordeal.”

Saurfang nodded slowly. He couldn’t argue that the spymaster hadn’t earned his rest. His surprising—but not unwelcome—assistance had made all the difference when it was needed, but being there in that crucial moment had certainly cost him. “You have my thanks,” he said. For his support in Darkshore; for his efforts to rescue the Banshee Queen’s prisoners. Truly, for no shortage of deeds. There was no need to be more specific; Shaw was a clever man.

His appreciation earned him what he took to be a rare smile. “Take care of him,” Shaw said. Saurfang didn’t have to know him well to believe that it was intended as both encouragement and warning. What Saurfang thought he might never understand was _why_. Wisdom would dictate that a man like Mathias Shaw would see Saurfang as a threat, and nothing more.

Shaw seemed to sense his confusion, however. He spared him an amused half-smile. “I know a little something about unconventional… attachments,” he explained cryptically. “Not quite so unconventional as yours, but, well.” He stopped and gingerly patted his own side. The most stubborn of his wounds had fought the healing provided by Tyrande’s priestesses, and no doubt grown worse during his foray into the Underhold. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said with a wince, “I have a boat to catch, and a pirate to appease.”

 

  
At the end of the corridor he found a guard and set him to watch Anduin’s door. The man—a Gilnean from Greymane’s royal guard—seemed more than happy to oblige. The Greyguard had all but taken over the keep since the king’s return, and Saurfang was happy to let them have it. Following the betrayal of Fen Songleaf and the other night elves, Anduin’s own guards, and the troubling duplicity of the Kul Tiran soldiers, there were few left he trusted to stand watch at the king’s door. The Gilneans had proven their loyalty and then some at Orgrimmar. As far as he was concerned, they could have the task until Anduin was well again, and able to determine for himself who he wished to stand watch.

Further down the corridor and past a short flight of stairs were Greymane’s chambers. The old wolf had been confined to his bed since their return. Saurfang had been informed that he was recovering quickly, and by all accounts unhappy to be so restricted. Apparently he hadn’t bothered to withhold his feelings on the matter, and most of the servants had swiftly learned to keep clear of his door. Saurfang knew of only one individual who had come and gone without raising his ire, and it hadn’t taken him long to understand why.

 _“So, you’re Anduin’s?”_ had been Mia Greymane’s first words to him. She’d stood before him with her hands on her hips, staring up at him as though she were somehow looking _down_ , instead. If Saurfang had thought Tess Greymane inherited her brusque demeanor from her father, that first encounter had been more than enough to set him straight on the matter.

As queen, and evidently being of far stronger stuff than most of the lords who would dispute her claim, Mia had quickly put the issue of temporary succession to rest. She had simply arrived and taken control of all the day-to-day matters within the keep. The rest she delegated to Anduin’s most loyal surviving generals and captains, who, in Saurfang’s opinion, were doing a decent job of keeping the Alliance from falling apart while its king recovered. A task made easier by the informal ceasefire that seemed to have brought the war to a halt on all but the Kul Tiran and Zandalari fronts. This he only knew from Mia’s visits to Anduin’s chambers, which had been rather confounding in their own right. Although he hardly considered any of it his business, Mia had, nevertheless, still taken pains to include him in most of her decisions, even if only after the fact. It was strange, and yet at the same time reassuring.

He made his way down to the kitchen, avoiding most of the more populous areas of the keep along the way. The few servants he did encounter paid him no mind, apart from the one or two who thought to remark that it was “good to see him about.” He took it to be a roundabout way of remarking on the king’s recovery, rather than any genuine concern for him.

At midday, and with so many members of the royal household recovering from their wounds, there was little need for the presence of a full staff. As a result, the kitchen was blessedly silent, apart from the bubbling of a seemingly endless stew and the crackle of the fire. A boar was slow-roasting on a spit, filling the room with a scent he had once found sweet, but now left him uneasy. In the corner one of the cooks was thumbing through a well-worn book. He smiled when Saurfang entered, awaiting orders.

Saurfang opened his mouth to speak, and suddenly found himself unable. He’d promised Anduin something to eat. It was only once he was there, standing in the middle of the kitchen with empty hands, that he realized he didn’t have the first idea how to care for someone who was ill. Oh, war wounds and other familiar ailments he could handle. But Anduin was sick in a very different way, and that was far outside of his ken. Yet the cook still watched him expectantly, and despite himself Saurfang felt his pulse quicken. He was making a fool of himself, and he hadn’t even opened his mouth.

“Prepare a bowl of broth,” he heard Mia say from the doorway behind him. She swept into the room as she usually did, silently and possessing more grace than most could ever aspire to. She took a seat at a small table against the wall, where the cooks usually took their meals. With one hand she patted the place across from her. “Sit,” she said to him.

Saurfang, somehow already accustomed to simply following Mia Greymane’s orders, did as he’d been bidden, and sat down. The small wooden chair felt as though it would shatter beneath his weight at any moment, and the feeling, he reflected darkly, was not unfamiliar.

“Some tender meat from the shoulder, and bread,” she added, giving orders to the cook as she smiled at Saurfang across from her. “Do you like cheese?” she asked him.

He nodded slowly, numbly. Was he ill himself? Why couldn’t he seem to speak?

Mia left the table for a moment, only to return carrying a plate of fruit, cheese, and bread. She set it between them and gestured for Saurfang to eat. “You won’t be much use to him hungry.”

He hadn’t been much use to him at all, he thought, letting the weight of that failure settle in the familiar pit it had hollowed out in his gut. He said nothing, but it seemed he didn’t need to; Mia frowned and crossed her arms over her chest. “You and Genn. You’re the same, you know,” she said sharply. “I’ll only say this to each of you once: what’s done is done. You cannot change any of it. Now, Anduin is awake, and he’s hurt.”

“His injuries—”

“His injuries are not the kind of hurt I’m speaking of, Lord Saurfang, and I’m sure you know that. What happened to him, what it made him do, will linger far, far longer than any damage to his body ever could. Even with the gracious presence of the Light, and I wouldn’t count on that helping. Not with this.”

He didn’t understand. Why would the Light not help Anduin as it had in the past? But before he could ask, Mia held up a hand to silence him. “It’s been… seven—?”

“Eight.”

“Eight days since your return from Kalimdor. You’ve done little else since then but watch over Anduin.” She pointed to the food on the tray between them. “Eat.”

It occurred to him that there was a time in his life, not so long ago, that he would have thrown both her and the table across the room for daring to speak so boldly. But it felt like another lifetime, and the anger that normally simmered just beneath the surface wouldn’t seem to come. There was no indignity over her presumption. He simply picked up the food and began to eat.

“I gather orcs are not accustomed to working through these sorts of things,” she said.

Not in any way that might be familiar to a human. He thought about saying as much, but instead chose to continue eating. Mia seemed to approve. He _was_ rather hungry.

“Yet you strike me as a man who must be intimately acquainted with sadness, Lord Saurfang. With the sort of wounds that never truly heal.”

He looked up, hand frozen halfway to his mouth. She was right, of course. He hadn’t yet made the connection himself, but once it was pointed out to him, there was no denying it.

“Forgive me, I know something of your history from my husband,” Mia said. “I do make it my business to look after those I care for, and Anduin is very dear to our family.”

“He is very dear to me,” Saurfang said perhaps more defensively than he’d intended.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that. I cannot imagine a man such as yourself standing vigil over anyone’s bedside otherwise. Your people are very strong,” she added. Saurfang sensed no attempt at mockery in her tone. “And from the example you have provided, I can only assume that your emotions are rather intense—if occasionally somewhat guarded outside of the bonds you’ve formed with one another. Correct?”

He nodded again. Orcs did everything intensely. They loved, fought, and died with all the strength they could muster. An orc might devote his entire being to a single cause, and never waver from it. That was their strength. It could also be their weakness. Saurfang, he realized with an uncomfortable lurch, seemed to have set himself to the cause of mourning. Not only those he had lost, but also himself. His mistakes, his failures, and his regrets.

“May I offer you some advice?” Mia asked. When he made a gesture for her to continue, she said, “ _Listen to him_. You’ll find no better medicine for the sort of wound that he has to heal.” Her slight hand patted his, and she smiled. “And do remember to eat.”

 

* * *

 

 

Genn’s chambers in Stormwind had never truly felt like they were his own. He was a guest, even if he was, technically speaking, heir to the kingdom. Always a strange prospect, that; Anduin had insisted upon naming Genn his successor, and it had been handled so neatly that he often forgot it had happened at all. That it wasn’t some strange fever dream. Or a nightmare.

And now, well… It seemed less and less likely he would be escaping that burden any time soon.

But Anduin was _alive_ , and in that moment, remembering that, he could not help but feel grateful for every blessing that had been bestowed upon them all. Even the damned orc.

 _“What have you done?!”_ Tyrande had shouted. Genn was still lying on the ground, his muscles twitching, the echo of unspeakable pain racking him from head to toe. He could not have stopped her, not even if he had been able to stand, and she’d descended on Saurfang with all the speed and power possessed by one who had lived for ten millennia. He had watched in confusion as she knocked Saurfang onto his back, pinning him to the sands of Durotar with her glaive. Stranger still, the orc had made no effort to fight back. He’d simply lain there, defeated.

It was only then that Genn had seen Anduin.

For no more than a fraction of a second the grief and rage he felt had nearly overpowered his reason, his control, and if he had not kept his eyes on the boy he might have surrendered to the feral nature of his curse. But he did, and even as Tyrande raised her glaive to end Saurfang’s life, Genn saw Anduin stir. No more than a shallow breath.

 _“Tyrande, don’t!”_ he roared. Somehow, he’d found the strength to lift himself and stagger to his feet, but he could hardly take a step without collapsing, and he would never reach her in time. Instead he called out, _“Anduin!”_ hoping one of them might look, might see what was happening beside them.

They had been fortunate, all of them. Tyrande _had_ seen, and she had dropped her weapon and rushed to Anduin’s side, her fury forgotten.

The rest had been a blur, eclipsed by his overwhelming relief and the pain that stubbornly refused to release his aching bones. He knew that they had burned the bodies before departing. Sylvanas may have been forced to retreat from her own gate, lesson learned and sporting a fresh wound on her ego, but she was no fool. Fortunately for those poor souls who had not survived the battle, neither was Mathias Shaw. He had coordinated the retreat, taken the reins of an army in total disarray. Somehow, along with all the other miracles of the day, a fair two-thirds of those who had marched on Orgrimmar had been able to return home. Many of those Genn’s own people, spared from the worst of the battle by the grace of their position in the army, and he could not help but take note of that.

For a time after returning to Stormwind he had feared that Anduin might wake back into the same walking nightmare that he had turned on Azeroth. That they had only brought the horror home, where it could infest and destroy their own people. But just that morning Mia had happily informed him that Anduin was awake, and blessedly back to normal. They would keep a close eye on him for some time, of course, but Genn could hardly imagine that the Light might have saved him if he weren’t worth saving. If there hadn’t still been something of Anduin beneath all that darkness. It was only after much time spent contemplating the events in Kalimdor—for he had little else to do, lying in his bed—that he had come to the conclusion Anduin had been there all along. A faint whisper within the shrieks of a dark and howling wind, but recognizable in hindsight.

Anduin had sent him away time and again. He had pushed the Gilneans to the back of the army. He had even locked Genn away, for all that it had nearly ended in his sacrifice to an ancient evil. But he had tried. That look of fear he’d seen on the boy’s face, he knew now, he understood, it was not fear for himself, but fear that Genn would refuse to leave his side. That he would be there when the worst of it finally overtook him. He’d been struggling to control the darkness, and he was losing. Even locked away and helpless to stop himself, he had tried to protect others. When he’d realized that, Genn had nearly wept. All the gratitude, anger, and helplessness had simply washed over him, and it had taken an act of pure will to deny it.

But in realizing that Anduin had continued to fight for others beneath his corruption, Genn had also stumbled upon a conundrum he was in no way prepared to solve.

Anduin, good, kind, and selfless Anduin, had not saved _himself_. In fact, if what Mia had learned from Saurfang was any indication, he had willingly given his life to stop the evil that was controlling him. He could not have also asked the Light to spare him. He _would_ not.

So, who had?

 

* * *

 

 

Three days later Saurfang woke to the sun, pouring in through the open window and illuminating the loose strands of Anduin’s golden hair. His eyes tracked the shape of his face, the curve of his neck and bare shoulder, and then his arm, all the way to where his hand rested atop Saurfang’s. He felt a touch, and realized Anduin’s fingers were gently tracing the shape of a scar. When their eyes met he tapped the leather cord around Saurfang’s wrist.

“I looked for this,” he said. His voice was soft. Everything in that moment was soft. “After they took you. I turned the cabin upside down trying to find it.”

Saurfang wanted to speak, but he found there was nothing to say. He simply turned his palm up, inviting Anduin to fill the open space with his own much smaller hand. His skin was warm. Saurfang had crawled into bed beside Anduin after another evening spent keeping watch from the corner of the room, no longer able to deny his own need to be close to the young king. Careful not to jostle or wake him, he had fallen asleep watching the rise and fall of Anduin’s chest.

“There are… gaps,” Anduin continued, no longer meeting Saurfang’s eyes. “Things I remember, and then long stretches of nothing. Velen’s told me some of it. What little Genn would share with him. I don’t think he wants me to know everything.”

From what little he had gleaned himself, he could understand the prophet’s hesitance. Anduin’s conduct in the intervening months had been troubling, until suddenly it was appalling, and then Greymane had become far less forthcoming with details. Recalling as much as he did of his own actions, it seemed an act of mercy to leave him with those empty spaces in his memory. Saurfang thought perhaps his eyes said as much, because Anduin’s frown only deepened when he didn’t respond. He sat up, and the thin sheet that had been draped over him slid down to pool around his waist, leaving his chest—and the livid scar on the right side of it—bared to the light. He ran a hand through his loose hair and sighed, resting his elbows on his knees as he sat there in silence.

“I don’t want to simply forget it,” he said after some time had passed. “I should know what…”

What he’d done.

He looked at Saurfang from the corner of his eye. There were unshed tears gathered there, and yet he was fighting them. “Does it ever go away?” he asked quietly. There was no need to be more specific, his meaning was clear; the guilt, the shame.

“No.”

Anduin nodded. He sniffled and wiped his eyes on the back of his arm. “Can I…?” he asked, already inching across the bed. Saurfang opened his arms, and Anduin crawled between them. He pressed his face to Saurfang’s bare chest, and breathed out a long, shuddering sigh. “I missed you,” he whispered. “ _So_ much.” Saurfang heard him swallow, and felt long eyelashes brush his skin. “Did you—”

“Every day.”

Anduin’s fingers wound around his loose hair and he shifted closer.

Saurfang took a deep breath. “There were times I—” Times he couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Nights he had lain awake, wondering if Anduin was already dead. Worse still, nights he could do nothing but pace, circling the camp beneath the luminous eyes of whomever was on watch as they tracked his restless steps. He shut his mouth, and held Anduin to his chest a little tighter than before, surprising even himself.

How had this happened? How had he shed his armor so easily, bared himself so thoroughly, inside and out, and all without ever being asked to do so?

He gave the matter some thought, but in the end the answer was simple, even to him: Anduin made him vulnerable. He simply didn’t care.

“Will you go back?”

The question caught him by surprise, and at first he struggled to grasp its meaning. When he finally understood, he could only exhale and slowly shake his head, saying, “There is nothing for me to go back to.” He thought of the Horde soldiers in Darkshore, so quick to condemn him. So angry over his betrayal. There were some who still believed in his love for the Horde, who still respected what he had given—and lost—to see it prosper. But how many? How many who were not already safely resettled in Stormwind?

No. There was only one way he could ever return to the Horde, and it was not a path he was prepared to tread. Not anymore. He could not, he knew now, return to the Horde he so loved. But he could still help to save it, to reclaim it for those who would see its honor restored. For Baine, perhaps, or even someone else. Someone who would see the Horde prosper, and not by bloodshed and wanton brutality.

Without warning Anduin sat up, leaving the warm circle of Saurfang’s arms. He leaned on one hand as he looked down on the bewildered orc lying in his bed. “Then I want you to promise me now,” he said, “promise me you won’t go again.”

“Anduin, I’m here—”

But Anduin was shaking his head. “You know what I mean. Don’t throw your life away again. Not to atone, or to balance a debt you believe you owe to the dead. Stay with me.”

Saurfang rolled onto his back, but he kept his eyes on Anduin’s. He thought he might never tire of seeing the warmth in their stunning blue depths. At that moment he could not imagine ever willingly giving up such a luxury. But he had, more than once, and try as he might to deny it in that peaceful interlude, he could not ignore that a part of him would always feel as though he didn’t deserve any of it. He deflected the matter instead, chuckling, “Is that a command from my king?” and reaching out to tuck a lock of hair behind Anduin’s ear.

But Anduin’s gaze was sober as he placed his palm over Saurfang’s chest, near his heart. He pressed it to the scar that nearly matched his own. “A request,” he said. “From your mate.”

No sooner had the words left his lips than his eyes shyly darted to the side, locked upon some empty point in the middle distance. A blush stained his pale cheeks faintly pink, and he swallowed.

Saurfang could barely breathe. His fingers were frozen where the tips were nestled behind the curve of Anduin’s ear. “Anduin…”

“If you think that’s too much—”

“No,” he rushed to say, “no. Not at all.” It was unconventional and surprising—in the best possible way, but he wouldn’t deny that something long dormant within him leapt at the thought.

The relief on Anduin’s face was a sight to behold. He shoved Saurfang back to the bed, peppering him with sweet words and kisses that left them both breathless. He was so like himself, his old self, before Darkshore, that Saurfang couldn’t help but be swept up in his enthusiasm. He rolled over with Anduin in his arms, pinning him beneath his weight as he carefully mouthed at his tender neck. “Genn will be furious,” Anduin said between gentle bites.

Saurfang smirked. “Good.”

 

* * *

 

 

“I think you like him,” Mia said over her hands, folded beneath her chin. Her elbows were on the edge of his bed, and she was smiling. “More than you let on, anyway.”

“Nonsense.” Genn fluffed his blankets and grimaced uncomfortably. He repeated, “Nonsense.”

“He saved your life.”

“Yes, well,” he sniffed, “I saved his. I owe him no debt.”

Mia’s smile only widened, and Genn could feel nothing but gratitude that he was yet blessed with her presence. That he could still look upon that smile and know it was for him. “Perhaps, my love, you owe him something else,” she said.

 

* * *

 

 

Later that day Saurfang found Baine in the Dwarven District, where the stares and whispers were not quite so obvious. The dwarves, for all their bluster, were a warm, friendly people. Saurfang often found himself wondering how a more cordial relationship between Ironforge and Orgrimmar might have looked, had history been different.

There were several children crawling about on Baine’s totems, which were lying propped against the edge of the fountain on which the high chieftain himself sat. He did not seem to mind their little hands and feet as they scurried about on the artifacts of his ancestors. One, a brave little boy, came charging up to Saurfang as he approached. “‘Ere’s another one!” he declared, rallying the other children.

A little girl shouted, “They’re both bigger’n the Great Forge!”

“Run along,” Saurfang rumbled, sending them all racing away squealing and giggling as though they’d just been told the best joke.

“If you have come to ask me to stay—” Baine began. A hand from Saurfang stopped him before he could finish.

“I know better than to try talking you out of something once you’ve set your mind to it.” Baine’s father had been a stubborn old bull when he felt his course was true. It was no great surprise the son had inherited that same character. “You will do what you think is right.”

“I do not know that it is right,” Baine admitted, “but it is what must be done.” He snorted, and it almost sounded like a laugh. “In some ways I think it might have been better if you had left me in the Underhold.”

“Do you truly believe that?”

Baine was silent for a moment, clearly thinking it over. Then he shook his broad head, making the braids of his mane swing gently. “No. But nor do I believe there was anything that could have been done that day to mitigate her fury now. She will seek to punish my people for what we have done, even if she cannot do so directly. By staying here I validate whatever action she takes.”

“Will you take them with you?” Saurfang asked. He meant the other prisoners from the Underhold, of course. Among them the young troll Zekhan, who had been a good friend to Saurfang, and lost much for it.

“Archdruid Runetotem will return to the Cenarion Circle. They have much to do in order to safeguard Moonglade and Mount Hyjal from Horde incursion. Sylvanas may be silent for now, but she has made her intentions clear. For whatever foul reason, perhaps known only to her, she has chosen to make all of Azeroth her enemy.

“With your leave, I will allow the others to choose for themselves whether they will stay here, in Stormwind, or come with me to fight for the true Horde.”

Saurfang huffed a heavy sigh through his nose. That was no simple matter. It was also not his decision to make, though he knew what he would have said if it were. “I must discuss this with the king,” he said. As he spoke, he caught sight of a guard. An escort, positioned strategically to appear as though he only happened to be in the area. Saurfang—and likely Baine—knew better. Although Greymane and Anduin both had welcomed the Horde prisoners into the city, there were many who no doubt opposed their hospitality. Allowing them to remain carried risks, and they would have to be weighed carefully.

Baine inclined his head respectfully. “Of course,” he said. “I trust Anduin Wrynn to make a decision that is best for all involved.” He gave Saurfang a kind but appraising look. “He has shown admirable judgment before, I am certain he will do so again.”

Saurfang smirked. “Admirable?”

“The young king has… refined tastes.”

At that Saurfang couldn’t help but laugh. He slapped his knee and shook his head. “You make me sound like a fine wine, my friend.”

“A bit aged,” Baine agreed.

Saurfang hummed thoughtfully, scratching his chin. “Only a bit?”

 

  
A short while later he found Miren Songleaf down by the lake, sitting cross-legged upon a stump. He approached from behind, shuffling his feet just a bit to announce himself. Sneaking up on anyone in Stormwind was a tricky prospect for him, given his history. And green skin. “Sentinel Songleaf,” he said cordially.

“Lord Saurfang. Is the king well?”

“He’s improved. His healers believe he should be up and about by the end of the week. If not sooner.”

She seemed relieved to hear it. “That is good,” she said. “And yourself?”

He was still unaccustomed to others asking after his well being so often. Humans seemed to do it a great deal, and elves nearly as much. Perhaps it was one of the customs that made them so compatible as allies. Or perhaps it was a mutual appreciation for the serenity of a quiet space. The lake was peaceful, and it sparkled in the morning sun. “I’m well,” he said, a bit distracted by the play of light on the water’s surface.

“You seem as though you’ve finally slept.”

Was it really so obvious? Everyone seemed to have taken note of his sleep habits—or lack thereof. However, a quick once-over told him that perhaps she was more familiar with the subject of restlessness than she let on. “You seem as though you haven’t,” he said pointedly.

She turned away, back to the water, and Saurfang noted the sad look that came over her for just a moment. Then she masked it with a weak smile. “Not nearly enough,” she agreed. “I’m afraid I have far too much on my mind for sleep.”

He chose to do away with the delicate dance of niceties the Alliance races were so fond of, and asked, “Your brother?”

She started, tensing, and then slowly her shoulders eased back down again, and she nodded. “Among other things. I can’t help but feel as though this all began with Fen. If he hadn’t taken the king, if he hadn’t used that cursed artifact—”

It was remarkably similar to an outpouring of guilt Saurfang had listened to once before, in the armory, and he thought he knew where this was going as well. He had no intention of battering Miren Songleaf with a wooden axe until she came to her senses, so he merely said, “Enough of that,” sternly and with the finality to make her mouth snap shut in surprise. “If Teldrassil hadn’t burned, your brother never would have found himself in the position to fall victim to the cultists’ manipulations,” he said, granting her the mercy of believing that her brother had not willingly sold his soul to their cause. “If I had not devised the strategy to overcome your people’s defenses, the Horde never would have made it to Darkshore. How far back will you reach?” he asked, “how many tragedies are to blame for what’s become of us all?”

He’d made a promise to Anduin that he would stop trying to right the wrongs of his past. Accepting what was, as Mia Greymane had so bluntly advised, seemed the first step on a long road to fulfilling that promise. “Our hands are stained with blood. All of us,” he continued. “Wash them clean today, and keep them clean tomorrow. It’s the best any of us can do.”

Miren was silent, and he hoped she was considering his words well. If he could do nothing else, if his many mistakes were worth anything, saving her the guilt and shame of a life spent dwelling on the past would be enough. For now.

“And what am I to do tomorrow?” she asked after some time had passed.

“That is your choice. Will you return to Darkshore?”

She shook her head. “I’ve sent word for Nieme and the others to come here, where they will be safe. Perhaps we can use what we’ve learned during our time in Darkshore to help our people elsewhere.”

Saurfang remembered Nieme, and her vicious little fangs. He was quite fond of the girl. She would thrive in Stormwind. Or else tear the city apart brick by brick. “Do _you_ wish to stay here?” he asked, feeling remarkably like he’d just had the very same conversation not so long ago, with Baine. “Will this be enough?”

“I suppose it will have to be.”

Saurfang continued to think of the young high chieftain, and the difficult task he had set himself. Chances were most of the Horde they had rescued would go with him. But some would stay. There were barely two dozen of them to begin with. Miren was used to working with far less. He gave her a thoughtful look. “Would you consider pledging that bow of yours to another cause?”

 

* * *

 

 

Anduin had only just settled into bed when Saurfang returned later that evening. He had taken a long soak in the bath, letting the hot water ease the necessary aches of a long recovery, and numb a pain that no one, not even those closest to him, seemed to understand. It was just as well that he had made the choice to set it aside. To focus instead on returning his life to some semblance of what it had been before.

The servants had brought his dinner, and now he was fed, warm, and pleasantly sleepy beneath the blankets. He eyed Saurfang as he entered the room. “Out and about?” he asked.

“Mm,” Saurfang rumbled. He removed his boots and began working on the buckle of his belt. “How do you feel?”

“Better than I have for a while,” Anduin answered. “The kitchen reports that they’re all very pleased to see I cleaned my plate. I haven’t received praise for such mundane tasks since I was a boy. It’s actually rather nice. I should have them evaluate my tidiness,” he added, gesturing to the rest of the room. He patted the bed. “Join me?”

“If you would like.”

Anduin shuffled back to make room for him. Saurfang finished divesting himself of his clothes and removed the metal clasps that bound his long hair, setting them on the bedside table. When he climbed into the bed it pulled Anduin toward him, and he took advantage of it, gathering him in his arms and rolling them over so that Anduin lay atop his chest. They were no longer beneath the blankets, but the warmth of Saurfang’s body was more than sufficient to chase away the evening chill.

Anduin hummed contentedly and wiggled in place until he was comfortable. He lay his head on Saurfang’s chest, happy to simply appreciate the steady rise and fall that came with each breath. “What was it like, living among the night elves in Darkshore?” he asked. He had spent time in Ironforge with the dwarves, lived alongside the draenei, and visited nearly every land called home by the peoples of the Alliance, but he had never spent time in the wilds the elves called home. Not by choice, at least, and not with the freedom to move about and explore his surroundings.

Saurfang chuckled. He petted Anduin’s loose hair and let his hand travel down his back, coming to rest on the curve of his backside. “Dark, silent,” he said simply. “Lonely.”

“Surely the others kept you company?”

“Not the sort of company I would seek for myself. They were honorable, tenacious. But quiet.”

Anduin traced abstract shapes, curling symbols that half-floated through his mind, his fingertips gliding across Saurfang’s green skin. “I thought you liked quiet.” He looked up to find Saurfang was watching him with an amused smirk. “What?” Anduin huffed. “I am not noisy.”

“You can be.”

“Well, that’s under an entirely different set of circumstances. And I have good reason to believe you like those noises quite a bit.”

His objection earned him an appreciative sound, and a stirring somewhere beneath him that prompted an arched eyebrow. He cleared his throat. “When you say lonely…”

“Not much time for that,” Saurfang said. He settled his head back against the pillow and closed his eyes. “Not much privacy, either.”

“But you must have… Now and then, right?”

He felt, more than heard the chuckle that met his question. Saurfang cracked an eye and looked down at him. “Now and then,” he said.

Anduin chewed his lower lip. He took a breath and asked, “What did you think of?”

“Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

“Varok.”

Suddenly the world turned over and he found himself on his back, with the imposing outline of a very large orc looming over him, broad enough to cast him into shadow in the muted candlelight. His heartbeat quickened, and he felt heat rise in his skin, making him sweat. “What do you _think_ I thought of?” Saurfang asked. He leaned down to brush his fangs across Anduin’s throat, eliciting a gasp. “Your smell,” he rumbled, the sound so deep it sent shivers down Anduin’s spine. “Your voice.” One of his hands, too large and strong to ignore, slipped between Anduin's legs, fingers massaging the insides of his thighs with surprising tenderness. “Your skin.”

Anduin arched his neck and fought to stifle a needy groan. “Could—” He swallowed hard. “Could you show me?” he whispered.

He felt Saurfang’s lips curl into a smile against his skin. “Show you what?” he asked, knowing full well what it was Anduin wanted.

Anduin huffed impatiently and wiggled beneath him. “Varok…”

Mercifully, the next words from Saurfang were, “How would you like me?” though that alone was nearly enough to undo Anduin on the spot.

“Lie back,” he said shakily. “So I can watch.”

The rush of power he felt ordering a man like Varok Saurfang to perform for him was not lost on Anduin. His heartbeat had become a hammer, and his chest could barely contain it as he sat up, leaning on one arm and watching while Saurfang settled himself onto his back again. His cock was already half hard, lying across his thigh, thick and swelling under Anduin’s intense gaze. He took himself in hand and began to stroke slowly. Beside him Anduin licked his lips and fought the urge to draw his tongue along the vein already prominent beneath his skin, his mouth all but watering with desire. It occurred to him, distantly, that he hadn’t quite considered what it would be like to only _look_ , and not touch.

Saurfang closed his eyes and pursed his lips, humming lightly, breathing harder as his hand began to move faster. He paused to swipe his finger across the tip, smearing precome and spreading it down the underside of his cock. Anduin found himself leaning closer, and when his hair brushed Saurfang’s chest he drew back, but not fast enough; Saurfang had opened his eyes, and he caught Anduin in a stare as his lips curled and a growl rose in his throat.

“Tell me what else you thought about,” Anduin breathed.

“Taking you, hard,” Saurfang rasped. Anduin could see him from the corner of his eye, clenching and unclenching his teeth, but his own gaze was fixed on the steady stroke of Saurfang’s hand. “Making you mine. By sight and scent, so everyone would know.”

Anduin was painfully hard himself, and simply imagining that, imagining others knowing what they had done, he couldn’t help but whimper. “Varok…”

“I would have you where others could hear. Let there be no question who you belong to.”

“Varok, stop, I—” Anduin could feel the sweat on his brow. His throat was so dry he could barely speak. He licked his lips and said, “I’ve changed my mind.”

Saurfang’s hand stilled, but his chest was heaving, and he looked as though he might explode at any second. The fingers still wrapped around his cock were trembling.

“I don’t want to just watch,” Anduin said. He rolled over onto his stomach and let his forehead fall to the mattress with a huff. “ _Please_.”

It always surprised him how swiftly and skillfully a man so large could move; Saurfang was kneeling astride Anduin’s thighs in the space of a heartbeat, already reaching across the bed for the glass vial Anduin kept on his own bedside table. He bent down, placing his sharp fangs beside Anduin’s ear. The rough sound of his breath was enough to send a flood of arousal straight through the center of Anduin’s body. He wiggled his hips, inviting Saurfang inside, desperate for it in a way he was too embarrassed to admit.

The first touch of warm, slick fingers made him gasp. He willed himself to relax and focus on breathing. Saurfang’s silver hair lay pooled on the bed beside him as he worked Anduin open with first one finger, then two. He curled them abruptly and the jolt of pleasure made Anduin’s entire body tense and jerk, and caused his cock to throb where it was trapped between his own body and the bed. Anduin set his cheek to the mattress and sighed. He spread his legs as much as he could in the space between Saurfang’s knees, angling his hips to urge him deeper, and Saurfang obliged. It was impossible to keep himself from writhing under the steady thrust of remarkably deft fingers, but he found himself pushing back each time they drove forward, until he was nearly on his knees. His cock dragged on the bed beneath him, leaving a wet stain with every stroke.

“Varok, Varok, please,” Anduin pleaded. He couldn’t wait any longer. “I need you inside me, _please_ …” He pressed his face to the mattress and lifted his hips as much as he could, offering himself, begging, so aroused he could hardly think anymore.

Saurfang continued to pump his fingers, but there was new movement; a shift on the bed from one knee to the other as he sat up, and then almost too quickly the feeling of fullness was gone. He withdrew his fingers, and the blunt head of his cock replaced them. Anduin could hear his heavy, ragged breath as he fought to control himself, but it was a losing battle, and one Anduin himself was happy to see forfeit. His cock slipped along the cleft of Anduin’s ass and then Saurfang buried himself deep in one long, slow thrust. Anduin gasped and clawed at the bed. It wasn’t painful, not exactly, but it was very close, and he couldn’t say whether that was good or not. Some part of him thought he actually wanted it to hurt. “ _More,_ ” he groaned, trying to tilt his hips further. The push that met his request felt as though it might snap his spine in two, but he persisted, still eager, still wanting.

 _So big, was it always so big?_ he thought, but the words were lost in the desperate rush that clouded his mind, unable to find their way to his mouth. He groaned and twisted the sheets in his hands, feeling the air rush from his lungs as Saurfang draped his massive body over his own smaller frame. He felt a strong arm wrap around his shoulders, and then a hand gripped the back of his thigh. At that moment he was utterly enveloped, wrapped within Saurfang’s hold with no hope of escape, and no desire to try. A bite to his shoulder was met with a breathy grunt as Saurfang continued to move inside him, pushing hard with his hips before rocking back just enough to do it again. His tongue swept over Anduin’s skin, tasting his sweat, and they both groaned.

“Anduin, _Anduin_ ,” Saurfang repeated over and over, growling his name between thrusts. When his front teeth weren’t busy scraping Anduin’s skin, his fangs were leaving stinging lines that made Anduin gasp in pain and pleasure. He pressed his face to Saurfang’s arm, only to abruptly pull back again; there, still wrapped around the thinnest part of his wrist, was Anduin’s leather tie. Even lost in the sheer joy of the moment as he was, he felt his eyes grow hot and he rushed to blink back tears, desperate to hide how deeply the sight of something so insignificant had affected him. He leaned down and kissed Saurfang’s wrist, and suddenly he was wrapped up in not one, but two enormous arms. Held in an embrace he could never hope to break, and never wished to.

Anduin struggled to find words, but with Saurfang’s weight bearing down on him it was enough just to keep breathing. He wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. He felt safe, sheltered. His hair caught in his mouth and he panted into the hot air around them, and Saurfang never stopped driving forward, never ceased in his own urgent desire to possess Anduin fully, inside and out. He continued to mutter and grunt his name, peppering the mantra with promises, and Anduin adored him for every second of it.

“Mine, forever,” Saurfang said. He moved his hand to sweep the hair from Anduin’s face, breathing the words into his ear and punctuating the gesture with a growl.

Anduin could only nod. In a lusty haze he bit Saurfang’s forearm, and it earned him another sharp shove that seemed to echo the pleasure throughout his entire body. He wanted so desperately to come, but among all the sweet words and vows of devotion Saurfang repeatedly uttered, “ _Not yet,_ ” and Anduin knew without asking what that command was intended to convey.

“Please,” he begged, knowing he couldn’t hold on forever. But Saurfang’s hand closed around his throat and lifted him until their faces were nearly touching.

“Wait,” he growled.

Anduin whined, and when Saurfang let go he wound his fingers into the long silver hair beside him and tugged him close again. “Tell me,” Anduin gasped. “Say it.”

Saurfang roared and pushed himself up onto his hands, continuing to thrust but no longer bearing Anduin down into the bed with his weight. He snapped his hips in several successive thrusts, and then grasped Anduin by the back of the neck, pinning him in place. “You are _my_ mate,” he growled, grinding his hips against Anduin’s backside. When he bent his head again it was not to bite, but to kiss. A gentle counterpoint to his possessive words and harsh sounds only moments before.

When Saurfang did come it wasn’t with the kind of raw intensity Anduin had come to expect; there was no exultant roar or even a snarl as he pumped his hips until he was spent. He simply let out a long groan, every muscle locked tight as he filled Anduin one deep, shuddering pulse at a time.

Only his arms and knees on the bed prevented him from dropping his full weight onto Anduin, and they shook with the effort. But Anduin, still hard and desperate for his own release, shifted beneath him, whimpering pitifully. “Varok,” he whined, “please, I waited.” He thought he might burst if he didn’t do something soon. The prospect was becoming more and more appealing by the second, in fact.

But Saurfang obliged, and moved off him. He withdrew his softening cock and gently turned Anduin onto his back. With a self-satisfied smirk that made Anduin want to hurl a pillow at his face, he swooped down and—ignoring Anduin’s startled gasp—licked a long, wide stripe from the base of Anduin’s cock all the way to the tip. His tongue was hotter than it had any right to be, so slick and velvety soft that Anduin nearly gave in and let go at the first touch. Instead he bucked his hips, seeking more, and Saurfang seemed happy to give it. One lick turned into two, and three, and Anduin pinned his thighs together, struggling to keep himself from losing control. He stuffed the heel of his palm into his open mouth and made inelegant sounds as Saurfang lapped at him from top to bottom and back again, flicking his tongue over the tip. Each time it seemed the pleasure had hit its peak, he would find some other way to tease, some other touch Anduin hadn’t anticipated.

But it was the _look_ that finally did him in.

Breathing too hard to think and dizzy from lust, Anduin craned his neck and looked down to find Saurfang’s brown eyes burning into his, the heat in his gaze an easy match for his tongue. At the sight of it, of Varok Saurfang licking his flushed cock, so focused on driving him mad with pleasure, Anduin lost all control. He tensed and came on the spot—and a bit on Saurfang’s face, as it happened. His thighs quivered, his breath came in quick, ungraceful gasps, and through it all he could feel the molten warmth of the mouth hovering tantalizingly close to his skin.

When it was over he went limp against the bed and struggled to bring calm to his racing heart. Some semblance of strength returned to him, and he lifted his head to take stock of the mess he’d made. He winced apologetically when he saw the results. Saurfang didn’t seem to mind, however; he reached up with one hand and swept a thumb across his lip, dipping it into his mouth. Anduin made a choked sound at the sight and let his head fall back to the pillow, utterly spent. “Thank you,” he panted.

“You’re thanking me?” Saurfang came to lie beside him, stretched out on his side.

“For not insisting I couldn’t handle it.” He had been afraid at first. Worried Saurfang might insist on going slow, easing into it, if not avoiding sex altogether until he was better—whenever that might be. Physically he was more or less back to where he had been prior to Theramore, if still a bit underweight. That didn’t seem to matter to the healers, or to Velen and Mia, however.

He turned to find a bemused expression on his lover’s face. “It never occurred to you at all, did it?” he asked.

Saurfang actually managed to look somewhat chagrined. “It did not.”

Anduin laughed. With a weak hand he blindly patted whatever part of Saurfang was within reach. “Just as well,” he said.

 

  
In the morning Anduin woke to the smell of breakfast—and an empty bed. He blinked back the last vestiges of sleep and let in the light, finding it didn’t sit so heavily on his heart that morning. He didn’t feel quite so ashamed accepting its warmth. Oh, the grief and guilt were still there, and he was privately certain they would never entirely fade, but he was feeling… Well, hopeful was a bit much.

“Food,” Saurfang grunted from the table across the room. He had a piece of parchment unrolled in front of him, and he was scribbling something onto the page. Autumn had taken Stormwind in its chilly grasp, and although it was terribly cold, he wore only a pair of loose cloth pants. His hair hung around his shoulders and over his chest. He seemed to have only just woken up himself.

“Are you sending a letter?” Anduin asked. He swept his legs over the side of the bed and hopped down to the floor. Instantly he regretted not aiming for the woolen rug on the other side, instead. The stones were freezing, and his whole body felt as though it had been gripped by a profound chill. He blindly reached behind himself and groped for a blanket, wrapping it around his shoulders as he shuffled to the table. Saurfang only arched a brow at him when he sat down still cocooned within its warmth. “I’m _cold_ ,” he grumbled petulantly. He was no admirer of mornings, and they both knew it. No sense pretending otherwise.

“A message,” came the cryptic answer to his question. Anduin decided to leave well enough alone if he wasn’t willing to share more. He had pastries to survey, anyhow.

He stuffed a cream-filled bun into his mouth and fought to swallow it without making a complete fool of himself. He thought he’d gotten away with it, too, until he saw a smirk across the table. Saurfang was still intently scribbling away at his letter, but it seemed nothing escaped his notice. Anduin wiped his mouth on a napkin and reached for something else. “Have you spoken with Genn?” he asked. He knew they had both returned from Kalimdor in sorry shape. It was only recently that Anduin had been told the exact nature of what Genn had endured. And why.

“Yesterday,” Saurfang answered. “Briefly.”

“Is he well?”

“Unfortunately.” He looked up. “Your pet wolf will make a full recovery, Anduin. No worse for wear.” He seemed to have some idea why Anduin had asked, and he frowned. “He does not blame you.”

“I wasn’t worried about that,” Anduin lied. “I only thought—” He stopped, took another bite of toast. “Are you staying in today?”

“I have business, but I will return after that if you wish.”

Anduin shot him a bemused half-smile over his napkin. “Strange to hear you speak of errands. May I ask what manner of trouble you’re up to in my kingdom?”

“I need a seal.”

“I assume you mean the sort that works with wax, not fish. Will the royal seal of Stormwind not suffice?” He hadn’t yet made the offer to furnish Saurfang with his own variation on the royal crest, and he wasn’t quite sure how to approach the matter, either. A part of him was certain it would be refused, and to bother bringing it up at all would only embarrass them both. It was silly, anyway. They weren’t _married_.

“Not this time.”

He nodded slowly. “I see. Will you require a courier?”

Saurfang looked up again. He wasn’t frowning, exactly, but he didn’t seem terribly pleased by the sudden mock interrogation, either. “Anduin.”

“Apologies,” Anduin said, holding up his hands. “I was only curious.” He sighed heavily, somewhat dramatic about it, in fact, and set his napkin on the table. “Well, I suppose I ought to leave you to your errands. Won’t do to be lounging in bed, _naked_ , when the servants come in to clean up breakfast.” He made a show of getting up and ‘accidentally’ dropping the blanket as he turned around. To his chagrin the sudden burst of cold air around his bare skin was worse than he’d expected, and he instantly regretted the decision. There was absolutely nothing seductive about the way he jerked his arms against his sides and sprinted back to the bed to bundle himself beneath the covers. “Not a word,” he said with a shiver. He didn’t need to look to know what sort of cheeky grin his antics had earned him.

“Of course, Your _Majesty_.”

Anduin glared at him from a small gap between the blankets. “Come back to bed and warm me up,” he demanded. “You can leave your insolence at the table.” He thought it over for a second more and added, “And your pants.”

 

  
“Baine is going back,” Saurfang said later, after they had finished. The room no longer seemed quite so cold, and Anduin was lying sprawled across the bed, aching in all the right places.

He lifted his head and blew a lock of hair from his face. “I thought he might,” he said. “I’d like to speak with him before he leaves, if there’s time.”

Saurfang nodded. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, fingers working at his long hair. “He thought _you_ might. I will see to it he makes time.”

Anduin didn’t bother to wait for an invitation to assist; he sat up and knelt at Saurfang’s side, took some of his hair in his hands, and began to loop and twist the long silver strands into their customary neat braids. At the bottom, where the hair was normally secured with a solid metal clasp, Anduin instead grasped it with one hand and tapped Saurfang’s wrist with the other. “Here,” he said, pulling the large green forearm into his lap. He plucked at the leather tie with his fingers until it came loose. All the while Saurfang watched, his brow pinched in confusion. Anduin unwound the thin strip from his wrist and began to tie it around the hair he had braided. He finished it off with a knot, and gave Saurfang’s shoulder a quick kiss.

“And what am I to do with this?” Saurfang asked, holding up the extra metal clasp.

Anduin took it from him and reached back to gather his own hair in one hand. He slipped the clasp into place and gave his head a shake. With a raised brow, he smiled and asked, “What do you think?”

“It suits you.”

Anduin hummed contentedly and once more pressed his lips to Saurfang’s green skin. He scraped his teeth across a small valley between two muscles, and smiled at the sound that it earned him. Lifting himself up onto his knees, he followed the thick cord of muscle until it joined his neck, and from there he mouthed a trail along the underside of his jaw. He paused at Saurfang’s scarred chin and gave him an appraising look. “You suit me,” he said, biting gently. He let go and traced the line of Saurfang’s lower lip with his tongue, then drew his own over the sharp jut of one pierced fang, pausing only to breathe in the scent of sweat and skin. A warm hand came around his back and he smiled. Glancing down, he said, “So soon?”

“How could I not?”

Anduin was still relaxed and slick from the last time, and without a word he shifted himself into Saurfang’s lap, holding onto his broad shoulders as he sank down, taking him in perhaps a bit faster than advisable. He winced, and Saurfang frowned. “No need to rush,” he rumbled. He pressed his lips to Anduin’s forehead and inhaled deeply. “You’ll have me for as long as you want me.”

“I believe—” Anduin huffed, letting himself slip down the last few inches, “—your offer was _forever_.” He swallowed hard and hid his face in Saurfang’s neck. “Varok,” he gasped, “you have to move me.” He simply couldn’t do it; his thighs were spread as far as they would go, his arms could barely encircle the shoulders to which he was already clinging, and every breath seemed to shift the massive cock inside him so that it felt like it might displace his lungs. “Please,” he begged.

Two hands came around to grasp his backside, and he was lifted, almost to the tip, before Saurfang pushed him back down again, plunging deeper than before. Anduin cried out against him and shuddered, letting the air that escaped him taper into a groan. He dared to let go with one hand to scratch his fingernails across Saurfang’s nipple. It was answered with a slap that sounded like the crack of a rifle, and Anduin leapt up in his lap.

“Too much?” Saurfang asked.

Eyes wide, Anduin shook his head. “Not at all,” he insisted. “You can— _Ah!_ ” He cried out and tensed as Saurfang’s hand came down on his ass a second time. The skin burned deliciously, and Anduin whined at the hot sting, surprised by how much he enjoyed it, and how badly he wanted it to continue. He nuzzled Saurfang’s jaw and pleaded, “Again, please, Varok,” wriggling in place against the other hand that would hold him still. “Hit me.” He gasped when a third open-palm slap came down, shouting, “Harder!” It felt so good, so sharp and clean, uncomplicated by anything but the sensation, the pain and pleasure of it. He knew his fingers were digging into Saurfang’s skin, but he didn’t care.

“I don’t want to hurt you—” The objection was swallowed in a growl as Anduin shoved himself down as far as he would go, squeezing tight around Saurfang’s cock. He did it again and again, bouncing in Saurfang’s lap for as long as his already bruised muscles would permit, until they too were singing in pain. Anduin felt the chest beneath him heave and heard a choked sob, and he watched and felt Saurfang’s control give, felt his entire body shudder at once as he came. He gasped, fingers digging into Anduin’s backside, bruising the skin of his ass, his whole body wound tight for that one exquisite moment.

Anduin slumped against him. He stroked himself with one hand and clung to Saurfang’s shoulder with the other. His throat was sticky and dry, and his voice was hoarse. “You could never hurt me,” he rasped. “Never.”

He was not quiet when he climaxed, and he didn’t much care. He let the chill air of the room cool his skin, drying the sweat, and listened as his heartbeat returned to normal. Beneath his ear he could hear another beat, stronger and more thunderous than his own. He smiled.

And then the rest returned, all the weight and fear, the worry and shame, and his smile faded. “I’ll have to address the people,” he said.

Saurfang carefully disentangled himself from Anduin’s limbs, breaking the connection between them, and lowered him back to the bed before disappearing through an adjacent door. When he returned a few minutes later he was clothed in his usual leather and metal, tying a small pouch to his belt.

“Will you stand with me when I do?”

“If you wish. If you believe it will help,” Saurfang said.

“I don’t know if it will help them, but it would help me.” Anduin considered getting up and taking a bath—he could certainly use one—but lethargy won out, and he remained where he was. He shifted his hips to feel the scratch of the sheets against his sensitive skin, still burning where Saurfang’s hand had marked him.

“As my king commands.”

Doubt suddenly settled around him, and Anduin sat up. “It isn’t a command, Varok. I want you there. And although he’ll likely never say it, I’m sure Genn will want you there as well.”

Saurfang nodded, but he was focused on buckling his bracers, not the conversation. “The people may not agree,” he said, “I’m well regarded within the keep, and tolerated in more familiar parts of the city. It may be unwise to press our luck.”

“You saved me twice, you saved the Alliance.” A dark thought occurred to Anduin, and he scoffed at himself. “I’d wager you’ve done more for them in recent memory than I have since the start of this war. You have every right to stand at my side. As my adviser and more.”

“Anduin.”

“Don’t, Varok.” Anduin left the bed and retrieved his own clothes. Nothing more than a simple shirt and pants. He pulled them on and tied the lacing, turning to face his lover, who loomed over him as he always did. It no longer intimidated him as it once had, and he glowered through the fringe of his hair. “No more platitudes. No more reassurances.” He wouldn’t have it. Not here. Not from _him_.

“What would you like me to say?” Saurfang asked. It was not a question at all, but a challenge; an opportunity for Anduin to provide him with an opening. Well, he wouldn’t give it. Instead of answering, Anduin growled and stomped back over to the bed. He knew what was coming, and he would be damned if he was going to see the pity in his eyes when he said it.

“What happened wasn’t your fault.”

That. _That_.

Anduin rounded on him. “Stop saying that, Varok!” He picked up one of the pillows and hurled it at the opposite wall. It hit with a soft sound, and fell harmlessly to the floor. “You and Velen, the healers, Mia—you all keep telling me this wasn’t my fault, but it was. It was me, and I’m responsible for those deaths. The blood is on _my_ hands!”

Saurfang was shaking his head. “You were manipulated by something far older and more powerful than you know—”

“But it was still _me_ ,” Anduin insisted. “It didn’t crawl inside my body and dictate my every action, it—it _insinuated_ itself into my mind, encouraged my fear, my grief, my anger. It didn’t make me into anything I was not already capable of becoming on my own. Don’t you see? I wasn’t corrupted like Garrosh Hellscream, I was _used_. My desires, my darker urges, were harnessed and directed at my enemies _and_ my allies.” The fear. The screams that still haunted him in the silence. He had taken to keeping the windows open, just to hear the wind and the workmen far below. Anduin shook his head. “ _I_ killed those people. Me, not—” He faltered for just a moment. “It used me, but it never changed me.”

“You fought to save Greymane. You tried to send him away, where he might be safe. And you helped me to stop you.” Saurfang came closer, and Anduin battled the urge to move away. Not from fear, but because he could not stomach the thought of a loving touch, or a kind look. “You were aware that what was happening to you was not truly who you are.”

“But it doesn’t change that I could not have done those things without the darkness that was already within me.”

“There is no darkness in you, Anduin. The druid—”

“Don’t say that!” Anduin clenched his teeth and looked for something else to throw; some other object that could bear his anger and the hatred he felt for himself. When that failed he simply demanded, “Don’t ignore who I am, not if you love me as you claim to! I am flawed, just like you, Varok. Just like Genn. I have thoughts that shame me, just like you. Regrets. Urges that are unbecoming of the sort of man I am supposed to be. I can feel a lust for vengeance and celebrate the suffering of my enemies. _I hate too_.”

Even unwilling as he was, Anduin could not help but glance at the brown eyes that watched him, and he was horrified to find confusion and hurt, helplessness. He’d caused that. His shoulders slumped, and he breathed out all that remained of his fury. It was something he had once done with the aid of the Light, but he would do it now on his own.

When the wild beat of his heart had calmed, and his chest had stopped heaving, he explained, “When I lost the Light in Darkshore, all those parts of myself I work so hard to hide away were laid bare. It feasted upon them like a gluttonous quilboar.” He looked up, meeting Saurfang’s gaze evenly. “Don’t tell me that I wasn’t responsible, Varok. I set the table for that meal. Fen Songleaf only rang the bell.”

His next words would hurt him, but in his heart he knew they would hurt Saurfang far more, and yet it could not be helped. Someone had to understand.

“I know you know what it feels like to be used,” he said quietly. “To cause untold suffering at the behest of a power that holds no regard for the sanctity of life. But you were _made_ to do those things, Varok. You had no hatred in your heart for those people before you drank the blood of Mannoroth. Not the sort that would drive you to do those terrible things on your own. You never entertained ideas of massacring the draenei, of laying waste to Azeroth. Those things I did… I _have_ desired them. And through me it made them a reality. There is no penance I can pay for that failure.”

Saurfang watched him for a few moments, his expression unreadable, even to Anduin. There were times he was as easy to divine as a young mage’s first scrolls. Now he was closed, shuttered to Anduin as the Light had been with Songleaf’s artifact around his neck. “Say something,” Anduin asked.

Saurfang moved to the door. “I will return this evening,” he said. And he left.

 

* * *

 

 

Anduin’s words rang in his ears as he moved through the keep, out into the courtyard, and made his way to the bridge that would take him to his destination. The metalsmith's shop lay just across the canal. It was a short enough journey into the city proper that he would not have to suffer the leers and barely-whispered comments of the everyday rabble. He was no stranger in Stormwind, not after so long, but he was no guest, either. Although he could move about safely, he was nevertheless subject to the disdain of the people. That was fine. He did not need their approval, or their love. He was not Anduin.

Even so, it often seemed that he and Anduin were more alike than not. Both stubborn, passionate, and now haunted by misdeeds they could never undo. Perhaps Greymane had been right; they had spent so much time around one another that they were beginning to reflect the same qualities the other possessed. One of those qualities appeared to be a self-loathing bent. He could not help but fear that he had unduly influenced the young king, changed him somehow, and not for the better.

He handled his business with the smith—who was unhappy with the assignment, until his eyes beheld the gold he was to be paid for his efforts—and returned to the keep. Waiting for him on the courtyard steps was a familiar figure in blue. Just not the sort of blue he was accustomed to in the human city. Zekhan waved, and Saurfang smiled at his friend.

“You look at home here,” the troll remarked, eyeing Saurfang with a smile. “The Alliance be spoiling you, huh?”

Saurfang thought of the mother who had pulled her child close as they passed by only moments before. “Hardly,” he said. “I am glad to see you well, my friend.”

Zekhan made a so-so gesture. “You could say that. Sylvanas don’t have much love for us. Her Dark Rangers and the other Forsaken even less. But we made it out, thanks to you.”

“Not me,” Saurfang said, shaking his head. “But I will pass along your thanks to those who deserve it.” He doubted Tyrande Whisperwind and her mate would care for the gratitude of one troll, and certainly not if it meant exchanging words with Saurfang, but he would mention it to Anduin. Perhaps some good might come of it.

The thought of Anduin brought to mind their heated words, and a return of those same troubled thoughts that had been plaguing him since.

Zekhan must have caught him frowning. “You okay?” he asked. “Looks like you ate something bad.”

Saurfang tried to wave him off, but if he had learned anything of the young troll from their first encounter, it was that Zekhan’s stubbornness nearly matched his own. He sighed. “Nothing you need concern yourself with.” In truth, he wasn’t certain he knew how to explain it, even if he had been inclined to do so. His troubles with Anduin were private, but in trying to imagine how he would have explained such a problem, Saurfang realized that part of the dilemma was that he had no real handle on _what_ was wrong. Anduin was suffering, he was angry, and he was intent on blaming himself. All of these things Saurfang understood, but not how to grasp them, pull them apart, and examine the workings like a goblin’s engineering. He could plan a battle and account for every detail, every potential pitfall and setback, but he could not battle Anduin’s pain. Not if doing so meant battling Anduin himself.

“Well,” Zekhan said, leaning back against the steps on his elbows, “if you need, you know where to find me. Or just ask the soldiers that shadow me like rogues, lookin’ out for my health. I can’t promise I’ll have the answers you need, but I’ll be happy to listen.”

_Listen to him._

Mia Greymane’s words came back to him then, and he could have groaned at his own foolishness. Like a grunt fresh out of training, he had thought himself so wise that he could ignore the wisdom of those whose experienced far outclassed his own. That he could simply will a solution into being, when one had been provided already.

He said his farewells to Zekhan, and left in the direction of the docks, rather than ascending the steps into the keep. He had a great deal of thinking to do. There was no sense in simply barreling on through as he had tried to do already. Chances were that if he did, he would only make matters worse than he already had.

No, it had to be done right. He owed Anduin that much, at least.

 

* * *

 

  
“You’ll have your throne back soon,” Genn informed him, as though delivering a diagnosis. “I’m sure that pleases you.”

“Your tone makes it sound like a punishment, I wonder why I would be pleased to take such a burden on myself.”

“Anduin, I’ve had my time as king. The people worry for your well being.” Genn was sitting across the small table from Anduin, where Saurfang had been writing his letter only a few hours earlier. He seemed well, and he was once again wearing his regular clothing, rather than the lighter robes Mia had insisted he don during his recovery, which Saurfang had been certain to describe in great detail. “And you have responsibilities.”

“One of those responsibilities is not to slaughter the very people I serve,” Anduin pointed out matter-of-factly.

“I don’t know what to say that will ease your conscience, except perhaps to remind you that it was not your fault.” Pointedly ignoring Anduin’s frown, he continued. “You did not kill those people, my boy. If I have to insist upon that every day until death takes me, mark my words, I will.” He made a show of shifting in his chair, looking disgruntled. Anduin knew it for what it was, and he wanted to appreciate the familiarity of Genn’s efforts to disguise his more sentimental side, but some deeper frustration gnawed at him. A feeling he still couldn’t name, and yet could not ignore.

He chose to change the subject, instead. “Has Tyrande returned to Darkshore?” he asked.

“She has. And Tess with her. I’m afraid she’s gone with no more love for your orc than she had before. Even less, I’d wager.” Genn huffed a laugh. “I can’t say that I blame her.”

A spike of fear slipped into Anduin’s heart, and he sat up straighter. “Genn,” he started, only to find himself cut off by an impatient gesture.

“I know why he did it,” Genn said gruffly. He meant the sword, of course. Saurfang’s attempt to kill him in order to save everyone else. His eyes met Anduin’s, and his tone grew somber. “Believe me, I know better than most. You needn’t worry I’ll hold a grudge, or seek revenge. In fact, I owe that blasted orc a great deal, I think.”

Anduin couldn’t hide his surprise at that. “You owe him?”

Now Genn looked as though _he_ had something to hide, and he found somewhere else to settle his gaze, somewhere in the shadows on the far side of the room. “What matters is that you survived,” he said. “No sense dwelling on the rest.”

“It’s difficult to do anything but,” Anduin admitted. “I’m left with questions regarding just what happened that day, and far too much time to consider the answers I _don’t_ have.”

He caught the brief but anxious look that passed over Genn’s features, and it intrigued him. “You’re well enough to be up and about,” Genn said, sitting forward in his chair, “if not quite well enough to return to the business of ruling. Perhaps Saurfang could accompany you to the cathedral. You might find the answers you seek there, in the presence of the Light.”

Anduin was already shaking his head before Genn had even finished speaking. “No, I don’t think that would be appropriate.”

“Why ever not? My boy, if you belong anywhere, apart from seated on the throne, it’s there.”

Anduin didn’t want to answer, and he didn’t want to discuss his reasons, either. He simply shook his head and pulled his robe tighter around himself. The only armor he had left anymore. “Let’s discuss something else,” he suggested.

“No, Anduin.” Genn had crossed his arms over his chest, and appeared ready to dig in his heels on the subject. “We’ll discuss this. I’m king for the moment, if you recall,” he added, referencing a much older discussion that Anduin would rather he’d forgotten, under the circumstances.

“I don’t think it works that way,” Anduin said, trying to change the subject yet again. “I’m tired, Genn. We can talk about this some other time.” He started to rise from the chair, turning back to his bed, but Genn’s words stopped him.

“You never healed them, did you,” he asked. “Your other injuries.”

Anduin froze.

“I know Saurfang told you. He repeated Velen’s instructions almost exactly, in fact. He wouldn’t have dared to do otherwise, and risk that you might not recover as you should. Yet you ignored him.”

“There was no need,” Anduin said.

Genn scoffed. “No need?”

“They were only superficial, Genn. They’re already gone.”

“You must truly think me a fool. You and I both know why Velen left those wounds for you to handle.” He heard Genn rise from his chair, and felt a hand on his shoulder, and even that small comfort ate at him. The gesture lent strength not to Anduin, but to the unnamed dread that had latched onto his heart. “Anduin…”

Something within him hardened, and Anduin made no attempt to fight it as he once might have. If Genn insisted on digging, he could have whatever he found. He turned around, abruptly throwing Genn’s arm from his shoulder, and hissed, “Don’t you think I’ve asked for enough already?”

For just an instant Genn looked fearful, and Anduin knew it was not for him. Not really. He was afraid that Anduin was still infested with that same darkness that had dragged him down, locked him within a dark room he couldn’t escape. “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he admitted somewhat warily.

Anduin made a frustrated sound and gathered the hem of his robe in his hands, pulling it tight. “Varok put my father’s sword through my chest, Genn. He killed me. Yet I stand here before you, whole, _alive_.” He laughed bitterly at the thought. “It may be no more than a week before I take back the throne, and resume ruling the people whose loved ones I _butchered_ in Kalimdor. How can I think to ask for more? How could you and Velen expect that I would?”

“Anduin, what happened to you wasn’t—”

“ _Answer my question_. You may be sitting on the throne, but I _am_ king. Tell me why you think I deserve to ask the Light for more than I have already.”

Genn watched him sadly for a moment, his steadfast understanding nearly too much to bear. The fear had gone, and only pity remained. Pity, and sorrow. Then he said, “My boy, what makes you think it was _you_ who asked?”

 

* * *

 

 

Anduin was in the bath when Saurfang returned later in the day. There had been a time, not so long ago, when he’d thought of the set of rooms at the top of the keep as only Anduin’s. They were his chambers, furnished to his liking, and filled with his own memories and cherished things. Now there were signs that someone else dwelt in the same space; strange trappings here and there, clothing far too big for the slender king, and the wide bed showed evidence of being shared. He still kept his own set of chambers, of course, but it seemed a mere formality now. He _lived_ with Anduin. And now Anduin wanted that bond to become something more, and Saurfang did not have it in him to refuse. Once he had simply accepted that he would always given Anduin whatever it was he wanted. Now he relished it.

He entered the room without any sort of fanfare, no preamble to announce himself. Anduin’s back was to him. He was leaning against the stone wall of the bath, his wet hair flat against his head. The water, kept warm by some arcane means Saurfang had never bothered to investigate, made the room feel damp and filled the air with a pleasant scent. Anduin was submerged up to the tops of his shoulders.

Saurfang stood for a moment, and then decided perhaps it was once again the right time to emulate his lover’s better nature. He sat beside the bath, leaning his own back against the stone behind Anduin. Once they were on the same level he said, “My wrongs are my own burdens to bear, and I may spend the remainder of my days struggling to live with what I’ve done.” He pulled his legs up close, and for just a moment the position, the feel of the rough, grey stone beneath his body, reminded him of his cell in the Stockade. “I am able to see the weight you carry now, but I can never know its depth.” He growled—not at Anduin, but himself. “It is… difficult for me, putting these thoughts to words.”

Action was where his talents lay, and not a man or woman among the Horde—not even among the Alliance—might have suggested otherwise. He did not trade words lightly, and had never seen the value in talking over a matter more than necessary. Now he was faced with a task that required him to take everything he knew, who he was, and turn it all on its head. And he would do it.

“You are my strength now, Anduin, and I would be your heart. Whatever it is you need, whatever I can provide, tell me, and I’ll see it done. If you only wish to talk, until your throat is raw and you have no words left, I will listen.”

The room grew silent once more, and the weight of the air lay upon Saurfang’s skin like a cloak. He waited, and, as he’d promised, he listened.

After some time he heard a slight stirring in the water behind him, and he felt Anduin’s fingers on his shoulder, lightly brushing the skin with warm, wet fingertips.

Anduin took a breath, and then slowly let it out again. “I felt… helpless,” he began.

 

* * *

 

 

**Epilogue**

 

  
Anduin smoothed a hand over the front of his long blue coat. He readjusted the sash for perhaps the fourth or fifth time in as many minutes, and Genn couldn’t help but sigh. “Anduin, enough. Your people are waiting. Go and speak to them.” He was firm, but did not take pains to hide his affection, either. They were standing in one of the receiving rooms just inside the entrance to the keep, and Anduin had been ‘preparing’ for nearly twenty minutes.

But still he hesitated, and Genn could see the lingering apprehension in his eyes. He had seen many emotions cross the young king’s face in the time they had known one another, but none ever broke his heart so cleanly as the self doubt that had wormed its way into his soul, and driven away some of the brilliance that belonged there instead. In time it might return, he thought—he hoped. For now, it was difficult to witness.

“They will forgive you as we all have,” Genn assured him. On Saurfang’s advice, he neglected to remind Anduin that what had happened to him was not his fault. It had been a strange conversation, and not one he might have expected to have with an orc. They had shared a bottle of some terrible brew, gazing out over the city from the small garden that overlooked the lake, and discussed all that had come to pass in the days since Theramore. Genn had told him everything. A part of him still had his doubts he should share it at all, but someone needed to know.

“I just don’t know if I deserve their forgiveness, Genn,” Anduin admitted quietly.

He would take uncertainty over self loathing any day. Though a part of him longed to remind Anduin of the Light; of its mercy and healing, and the balm it could be to his troubled soul. But Anduin had refused it for himself, and Genn could not convince him otherwise. He had already tried. Though it pained him to do so, he kept silent.

Then Anduin added, “But I suppose there is no other way to be certain, is there?”

Genn moved aside for him to pass. The crowd was gathered below the steps outside, filling the courtyard all the way to the high stone walls. As he crossed the threshold, Anduin took a deep breath and closed his eyes, and Genn thought he saw a faint shimmer, a soft glow that faded almost as quickly as it had come.

He watched Anduin straighten his back, square his shoulders, and lift his chin. He seemed more at ease. Confident. He was Anduin again, if only for a moment; selfless and good, and truly the best of them all. And Genn hoped with all his heart that in time he would come to see the same for himself, and accept the truth of who and what he was. Not a monster, but a man. Not defined by his darkest moments, but by the grace with which he stepped out of the shadows and faced them.

For now, this small progress was enough.

 

  
“You’ll need new armor,” Genn noted, eyeing Saurfang’s mismatched collection of scavenged plate. They were standing atop the courtyard steps, to Anduin’s right and left and a few paces back. He was giving his speech to the people of Stormwind, and they were hanging on his every word. A good sign. “Something in blue, perhaps.”

“Am I to play the part of a child’s dolly for you now, old wolf? Will you take up knitting as well?” Saurfang laughed at his own joke, muttering, “Like an old woman,” under his breath.

“Hmm, Mia knits.”

The laughter abruptly stopped.

“What of Anduin’s armor?” Saurfang asked. “Will he wear it again?”

Genn hummed an affirmative. “He’s asked that the blacksmiths make some… intriguing alterations, but he will wear it again. When he’s ready.”

Saurfang nodded, and for a moment it seemed as though that was the end of their quiet conversation. But as Anduin’s address went on, it became clear there was something else on the high overlord’s mind. “Oh, just spit it out,” Genn hissed.

“Thank you.”

Those two words broke Genn’s steady gaze on the gathered crowd, and he turned wide eyes on Saurfang. “Pardon?”

“For saving my life. For trying to save his.” He shifted uncomfortably, and Genn could hardly reconcile such gestures coming from the mass of muscle standing beside him. “I would be honored to count you among my friends,” he said, adding, “Genn,” after a pause.

Genn knew he was staring. He could feel the curious attention of those closest to them as he continued to blink at Saurfang, his mouth slightly agape. He finally snapped it shut and turned back to the crowd. Clearing his throat, he said, “You have my thanks as well, of course. For all that you’ve done. Varok.”

Silence settled between them, and the two men stood arrow-straight in the autumn sun, watching Anduin give his speech without really watching at all. It was Saurfang who broke first.

“I much prefer—”

“No, it’s—you’re right—”

“Saurfang is acceptable.”

“If you would only stop calling me _dog_ ,” Genn insisted.

 

* * *

 

 

The letter contained no formal address, as the familiar wax seal might have suggested it would, but it did not need to; the intended recipient was quite clear. The contents themselves were short, and brutally to the point. Two lines. Both written neatly in Orcish.

 _I will come to take the Horde._  
_Then I will take your head._

Her long fingers curled into a fist and the parchment twisted and bent in her grip. Fury rolled from her in trembling waves. It was not the threat that burned the darkness in place of what had once been Sylvanas’ soul. She had expected that much, and nothing more. No, it was the blunt script, scratched in black ink along the bottom of the parchment, just above the golden lion of Stormwind. The sender’s signature.

 _High Overlord Varok Saurfang_  
_Royal Consort of His Majesty, King Anduin Llane Wrynn of Stormwind_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully that made up for the tour of pain you've been on since oh, chapter two.
> 
> Now, I have a question for those of you reading these fics:
> 
>  _Do you want me to continue?_ I have other ideas, and I could conceivably write about these two for a while longer. I ask this because I would rather not go on rambling past the point anyone wants to hear. Let me know. You can comment here, message me on tumblr, or shoot me an email (address can be found in my profile).
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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